


This Broken Melody

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Consulting Detective Jim Moriarty, Depression, F/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, reverse au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 18:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17309714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If you weren’t normal, you were either good at pretending or you were crazy. She was the former, he claimed to be the latter. The pathologist and the detective. Molly hadn’t meant to get involved in murders, but to be fair Jim hadn’t meant to get a flatmate.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be upfront with y'all - this story is never going to be finished. I started it back in 2014 when I was madly in love with Molliarty, and eventually ran out of steam. I've since moved on to other fandoms, but I always regretted not finishing this one and being able to share it. I have a policy of only posting complete fics because I don't like to leave people hanging, but I finally decided to let this one out into the world. I've already shared it with a few people who enjoyed it, and I know the Molliarty fandom is always hungry for new content, so what the hell. I'm orphaning it because, as I said, I have a policy of not abandoning works so I don't really want it on my main account, plus I'm embarrassed about a lot of elements of the story now. 2014 me was a dumb edgy bitch and it shows. But there are parts of the story I think genuinely work, and I hope you enjoy them. Keep the warnings in the tags in mind. Also, I haven't done any editing since 2014, so apologies if it's kinda rough.
> 
> As I won't be finishing this story, I give my blessing to anyone to take any elements from the story and use them in whatever way they see fit, should they so desire.

Silence.

Somewhere a dog was barking in the street. Car horns were blaring as impatient drivers tried to coerce their way through the traffic. Children shouted, people called to each other from the sidewalk.

The silence was numbing, deafening.

The knife handle felt smooth and familiar in his grip, almost comforting. He stared at the blade. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the window and glinted off the metal in white streaks, running over the keen edge as he held it up. Inhaling deeply, he scrunched his eyes closed and brought the knife to his arm. It stung coldly against the bare skin.

His fingers brushed over dry, crusty marks, one of them recent enough to still be oozing something sticky and unpleasant. Gripping the knife tighter, he pressed down and drew it across the top of his wrist. It dug in, breaking the skin and slicing through flesh in a clean line. His eyes flickered open, watching the beads of blood well up with a morbid fascination. Red and shiny, they spilled out the wound in a single trickle that ran down his wrist and made a scarlet spot on the carpet.

A throbbing, burning sensation erupted around the laceration. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out, dropping the knife and pressing a hand over the wound. Warm blood was still flowing, smudging under his hand with a sticky squelch. It hurt, god it hurt so much.

He let his eyes slide closed again and his lips pulled back in a grim, toothy smile.


	2. Chapter 1

Beep. Beep. Beep. She let go of sleep unwillingly, her eyes forcing themselves open. The shadows of dawn were retreating, a bright diffused light making its way through the drawn curtains. There were sounds of activity in the room above, and the alarm continued to drone cheerfully on. Molly slammed her hand over the top, eventually finding the off button. She fell back against the pillows with a sigh.

Another morning just like the last, and the one before that. And the one before that.

She pulled back the covers with a clenched hand, stripping off her pyjamas and wincing at the cold floor beneath her bare feet. A hot shower took away some of the weariness and when she emerged, her hair dripping wet trails down her back, she began to hum as she got dressed. Once her hair had been blown dry she rang for room service, ordering coffee and toast. She thumbed through the classifieds in the morning paper while she waited, but her search met with disappointment.

After breakfast Molly buttoned up her coat and locked the door behind her, taking the elevator down to the lobby where she found a cab waiting. It was a short trip to the hospital, marked only by one or two attempts at conversation by her cabbie which she dodged as politely as she could.

Paying him, she stepped out onto the tarmac, her shoes clicking as she crossed the parking lot. A light breeze tugged at her hair, loosing a few strands from her ponytail. She shoved them back into place and marched on, passing through the front entrance of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The morning crowds had already begun pouring in, and she pulled her arms close to her body as she tried to slip through the stream of people. Someone jostled her as they passed, eliciting an involuntary squeak from her lips that brought a blush to her cheeks.

_You’re a pathologist, Molly Hooper_ , she chided herself.  _If you can handle dead people, you can certainly handle the living_ .

It was with relief that she finally reached the labs, swinging the door open and offering a glib greeting to the woman straining through the eyepiece of a microscope at one of the steel tables. A forced smile came easily to her lips when the woman turned around. "Morning, Meena."

"Molly," Meena nodded, brushing a messy strand of hair out her face. "Exactly on time again, I see. You’re going to make the rest of us look bad."

Shrugging and dropping her handbag awkwardly onto one of the tables, Molly pulled on a glaringly white lab coat. "So, um, what have we got today?"

She listened attentively as Meena outlined her work for the day, snapping a pair of latex gloves over her hands. Then, exchanging farewells, she left the lab and traced a path to the morgue. The smell of disinfectant was everywhere, a scent she’d grown so accustomed to she missed it outside of the hospital. Before long she had an array of sterilised instruments layed out on the table like silverware, and her fingers unzipped the bodybag spread over the slab.

It was some hours later, the work completed and the body returned to its freezer, that the doors opened. Molly glanced up from the paperwork she was signing, her pen dropping against the steel tabletop with a soft clink.

"Molly?" Meena peeked her head through the doors. "I thought you’d be here. I didn’t see you at the cafeteria."

Pulling her mouth into a sheepish grin, Molly nodded. "Yes, sorry, we were going to meet for coffee, weren’t we? I was just—I was finishing some paperwork. Sorry."

"I brought you a coffee." The other woman entered the morgue, a styrofoam cup in hand. "You should take a break. You’ve been at it all morning—there’s no rush, you know."

"I know, I just wanted to get it done. Less work later, after all." Molly accepted the coffee, flinching as the hot styrofoam touched her palms. "Thank you. You didn’t need to come down here, though. I was good."

Meena leaned one arm against the table, her eyes fixed on Molly. "You haven’t had lunch."

"I’m not hungry. Postmortems don’t do much for your appetite," Molly tried to laugh.

The corner of her mouth twitching, Meena continued to regard Molly with a frown. "I know the first days on a job are always difficult, and you’ve only just moved back to London, but you seem... Are you okay?"

"Of course I am." Molly’s smile was one of confusion. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

"You’re very quiet."

"I’m a quiet person—you know that, Meena," said Molly, shrugging. "Molly the mouse, my dad used to call me."

Her co-worker didn’t seem satisfied. "It’s not just that. You’re always down here, even on breaks. You never talk to anyone, and when I ask you to meet me for coffee you don’t show up. I’m just worried. I remember when you interned here—you weren’t like this then."

Molly’s smile slipped for a moment, then she forced it back, taking a long sip of coffee. "I’m sorry, I know I should be more sociable. I just like it better down here. It gives me a chance to think."

Nodding, Meena’s posture seemed to relax. "I just want to make sure you’re okay."

"I am," Molly said. "I really am." She chewed her lower lip, shuffling the papers in her hands. "Thank you for the coffee, Meena. Um, excuse me, I just remembered I left my bag in the lab." Tossing the half-empty cup in the trash, she scurried out the room.

Meena was right behind her. "Look, if there ever is anything wrong, you know can always talk to me."

"Of course." Quickening her pace, Molly’s footsteps echoed through the hall till she reached the labs. She pushed the door open, her mouth tightening when she saw Meena was still behind her. Her gaze shifted to the dim lab, sweeping over the steel tables in search of her handbag. She stopped short. "Excuse me, what are you doing in here?"

The man stood with his back to the door, both hands pressed against the table as he bent over one of the computers. A grey jacket was draped loosely around him, rumpling across his waist and worn thin in places. Molly wrinkled her nose at the mud stains marking the faded surface of his jeans. His back straightened and he twisted around, a pair of dark eyes meeting her, regarding her like a snake watching its prey. Molly took a step back.

"It’s alright." Meena had entered. "That’s Jim—from upstairs. He works in IT." Her expression changed. "What  _are_ you doing here, Jim? The computer’s fine."

He shrugged. "Routine maintenance." His eyes flitted back to Molly, sweeping over her in one fluid motion. His mouth twitched but he said nothing.

Molly turned away quickly, her hands fumbling over the straps of her bag as she pulled it onto her arm.

"There’s no maintenance scheduled for today." Stepping closer, Meena tried to peer past Jim at the screen. "I would have been told. What are you up to? I’ve told you to stay out of my files."

Jim moved to block her view. "Who’s the new pathologist?"

"M-Molly," said Molly, straightening her coat and edging towards the door. "Molly Hooper."

"Jim, get away from that computer." Meena pushed him aside, her brow creasing as she surveyed the text on the monitor.

After narrowing his eyes at Meena, Jim smoothed his mop of dark hair and flashed a toothy grin in Molly’s direction. "I’m sorry about your father."

The corners of her mouth fell and she blinked "What?" A strange tightness had settled in her throat.

"Your father. I’m sorry. Isn’t that what people are supposed to say?" His voice was soft, almost singsong. Like an instrument played just slightly out of tune.

She pursed her lips. "Someone’s told you about me."

"Didn’t even know you existed until now, darling."

Molly was grateful when Meena broke the silence. "Jim, what the hell are you playing at? How did you get into these files?" Her voice had taken on an icy edge. "I told you you couldn’t do this. I’m going to report you to your manager."

"Do that." Jim’s unblinking smile shifted from Molly to Meena. "I hate this job anyway. Do you know how many of you don’t even know how to turn on spellcheck? I get called down at all hours to turn on  _spellcheck_ ." Rubbing a finger over his stubbled chin, he seemed to laugh at some private joke. "I’ve got what I needed."

He twirled around to face the door, raising a pair of tweezed eyebrows at Molly as he passed her. Then he was gone, the door swinging behind him. Molly looked to Meena.

"Sorry about that," her friend sighed.

"I don’t understand. What was he doing?"

"Going through the files on some of our recent cases. This isn’t the first time he’s done it—I gave him a warning before, but this is too much." Meena folded her arms. "I don’t know what he’s after."

Letting out a long breath, Molly nodded to Meena and reached for the door. "Well, I have some paperwork to finish, so I’ll be off. Um, thank you—for coming round. Maybe we can have coffee another time?"

"Okay."

She let the doors close with a click, pausing outside for a moment and inhaling deeply.

"Molly Hooper."

A soft gasp escaped her lips and she spun to face the voice. "Jim."

He was resting against the wall, arms folded and the corner of his mouth stretched down indolently. Those wide brown eyes met her gaze, the dark centres fixing on her and narrowing. "Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you."

"Uh, no, it’s fine." She tugged the wrinkles out her coat and brushed some imaginary lint from her sleeve. "Is-Is there something you want?"

"Your phone."

She blinked. "Sorry, what?"

Pushing away from the wall, he moved closer, the sleeve of his jacket falling halfway over his outstretched hand. "I need to borrow your phone."

Molly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then rummaged inside her bag for the mobile. She kept her eyes off Jim, but she could feel him hovering beside her. It was silly, really, that her palms were sweating as she grasped the phone. There was nothing threatening about Jim—well, nothing she could put her finger on. He wasn’t even much bigger than her. But she bit her tongue anyway when their hands brushed as he took the phone from her.

"Thanks." His fingers danced across the screen.

Molly waited. Licking her lips pensively, she pulled off what she hoped was a convincing smile. "So," she said, "had a bit of a row with Meena, did you? She’s right, though—you shouldn’t have been in her files."

"It was important." He didn’t look up. "Only way I could get that information."

"What information?"

He didn’t answer.

Tapping her foot on the tiled floor, Molly shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat and shrugged. Jim continued to type. "Did you leave your phone at home?" she asked at last.

"No." His eyes remained fixed on the screen.

"Then, um, why do you need mine?"

"Because she blocked my number."

Molly nodded in understanding. "Oh, girlfriend is it?"

"No."

After another minute of silence he handed the phone back. "Sorry to keep you from your work, Miss Hooper." He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Oh, it’s no problem. I’m ahead of schedule anyway," she laughed. "Uh, so, I guess I’ll see you around?"

His grin widened. "Unlikely. I won’t be working here any longer."

"Oh, oh, sorry, that thing with Meena. Right." Molly chewed her lip. "Well, uh, good luck then. Hope things work out for you."

Was that amusement or scorn in his eyes? "You too, Miss Hooper. If you’re still looking for a flat, you should pop down to Baker Street. Good location, pleasant landlady, nice rooms. And they’ll have an opening soon."

Her mouth opening and closing, Molly edged back from Jim, her eyebrows drawing together. "Okay,  _how_ do you know I’m looking for a flat? And how did you know about my father? Have you been looking me up?"

It was definitely scorn now. "My dear, do you really think you’re worth my time? Why would I look you up? I just met you and I’ll probably never see you again." He shrugged. "You’re new to London and you’ve been staying at a hotel—I saw a receipt sticking out your bag. Obviously you’ll be looking for a more permanent place of residence."

Pursing her lips, Molly looked intently at the floor. "You’re rigjt, I’m looking for a flat." She glanced up. "Why do you think there’ll be an opening at Baker Street?"

This time the smile did reach Jim’s eyes, and they glistened like polished glass. "Because by this time tomorrow I will probably have been evicted."

Her nose wrinkled. "Sorry, what?"

"There’s this annoying rule about having to pay the rent," replied Jim. "‘course I never was one to follow the rules."

"So—So you’re being kicked out?" Her fingers found their way to her hair, twirling it and tugging at it. Good judgement wasn’t one of her stronger traits—her mother had always been quick to point that out. She could be perfectly sensible any other time, but when it mattered it was like all her common sense just evaporated. Like when her dad asked her to move to the cottage, and she knew it wasn’t a good idea but she couldn’t say no. "Have you thought about getting a flatmate?"

His eyes seemed to roll around in his head and his mouth curled down. "Oh, yes, flatmate, very clever. Just what I need—might even be as fun as driving nails through my skull. Doesn’t matter anyway, no one would want to live with me."

"There’s me." She put a hand to her mouth, feeling her cheeks grow hot. "Oh, god, no, that sounded wrong. No, w-what I meant was, I just... Well, you need someone to help with the rent, I need a place to stay... Maybe we could..."

His mouth formed a blank line and he tilted his head, as if looking at her for the first time. "Are you saying you want to move in with me?"

"No," she kept her voice firm and even. "Well, I mean, yes, but not-not— All I’m saying is maybe we could be flatmates. Share the rent. You know."

His eyes flitted back and forth and he blinked. "Flatmates. You’ve just met me."

"I-I know," she inhaled sharply. "God, I’m not usually this impulsive. I don’t know anything about you. But I do need a place soon... Um, well, you know, I could go round to look at the flat tomorrow—and we could talk about it, and maybe... Who knows, it might work out."

"Okay." His voice was strangely quiet. "Until tomorrow, Molly Hooper." Buttoning his jacket, Jim headed down the hall, the clatter of his feet echoing behind him.

Molly bit the tip of her tongue, then called out, "Wait, you haven’t given me the address—I don’t even know your full name!"

He paused, his shoulders straightening as he glanced back. "221 Baker Street. And it’s Moriarty—Jim Moriarty."

_Jim Moriarty_ . She heard the doors shut as he left, and she pressed her back against the wall, running a hand through her thick hair.  _What am I getting myself into?_

* * *

 

Coughing, choking, dizzy. He clawed the chair leg, trying to pull himself up. His hands slipped and he dropped uselessly against the cold floor. Even as his faculties were fading, he had enough awareness to know he was dying.

_Dammit, I won’t let the bitch win._

Another fit of coughing wracked his body, and he fought to keep from throwing up. A limp hand tried to reach his pocket. Just a little further. His fingers closed around the hard phone. Through the haze encompassing his vision, he began typing.

* * *

A ray of sunlight hitting the couch blinded him as his eyes snapped open. Jim held a hand to his face, the warm sun flowing over his skin. Blinking several times, he raised himself to a sitting position, flinching at the crick in his neck. The dryness of his throat was soothed as he popped a breathmint into his mouth, chewing it rhythmically while he trailed a hand through greasy clumps of hair. The couch creaked as he rose, his legs protesting as they were forced to bear his weight after a long night hunched together on the couch.

He staggered through to the kitchen, grasping the counter to steady himself. His elbow caught an empty cup left on the sink, sending it hurtling across the floor in an explosion of porcelain. Shards skated over the tiles in a widening circle.

Cursing softly, Jim’s eyes closed and he leaned against the counter, breathing deeply before opening them again. A shaft of morning light found some of the shards, sparkling over the shiny glaze. Their edges were rough and sharp. Jim felt his fingers twitch as his eyes ran along the jagged porcelain, his skin tingling. Unconsciously, his hand found his wrist and he rolled back the long sleeve, picking away at fresh scabs. A stab of pain ran through his arm as he scraped one off. It felt sticky underneath.

A groggy step forward and then another. He reached the broom kept in the corner and began sweeping the broken pieces, listening to them tinkle as they slid across the tiles. With effort he kept his eyes off the sharp edges.

Once the mess was clean he heated the kettle, carefully setting another cup beside it and preparing some tea. The first sip burnt his lips. He blew at the steam, sending it forward in faint curling wisps. The warm liquid felt good as it poured down his throat, snapping his mind back into play.

He wrinkled his nose at the dirty clothing covering him, now rumpled from a night on the couch. It was no fit attire for greeting guests, especially when said guest would know he had worn it the day before. Downing the last of the tea, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and trudged to the bedroom, throwing open the closet.

With quick fingers he worked through the rack of clothes, pulling several items out and holding them up, only to toss them to the floor where dirty laundry was already piling. As he neared the end of the rack, he glanced at the other closet beside him, then shook his head and grabbed a denim jacket from a hanger. Dropping it on the bed, he shoved away hanger after hanger until he found a pair of brown slacks. They joined the jacket and he crossed the room to his dresser, flinging open the top drawer. His hands scrabbled through the folded clothing, eventually settling on a grey t-shirt which he bundled up with the jacket and pants.

A shower and one whole bottle of shampoo later, he was straightening the ensemble in front of the bathroom mirror, sweeping his palms over the shirt to flatten the wrinkles. His towel-dried hair stuck out at all angles, presenting the appearance of a dead hedgehog. Jim reached for the comb, smoothing the wild strands into place. It occurred to him that he was due for a haircut.

His hand stretched towards the bottle of gel beside the basin, then he shook his head. Instead he combed his hair into an acceptable (dull) style, and lathered his face in shaving cream. He drew the razor across his chin, towelling away the remaining cream when he was done.

Returning to his room, he checked the phone charging on the dresser. No new messages. His jaw stiffened.

After slipping on a pair of scuffed but passable shoes, he settled into the couch again, one arm resting on either side, his legs crossed. The clock ticked away.

His leg began to cramp. Pulling himself up, he paced the room, pausing by the window. He brushed aside the curtain, his eyes flicking over the busy street below. A multitude of people swarmed the sidewalks as always, but his search was in vain. He let the curtain drop and flung himself back into the chair.

The silence grew louder and louder. His fingers began to drum rhythmically on the armrest, tapping in time to the ticking of the clock. An hour passed.

He found an unopened box of biscuits in one of the cupboards and arranged the contents neatly in a bowl, setting it on the table. His gaze then swept the flat, suddenly noticing the muddy footprints on the carpet, the dust coating the bookshelf, the coat lying in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

Later he was stretched across the couch, looking over the room again. The mud stains had proved harder to remove than he thought, and his attempts at dusting the shelf only seemed to scatter fluffy grey clumps around the room, but the coat was hung up and he decided it was the best that could be done on short notice.

Twelve o’clock found him checking his phone for the fifth time, still meeting with disappointment. Jim scratched at his wrist. His feet paced a familiar circle around the small flat, coming to a sharp halt when a rapping echoed from the front door.

He had to grab the rail to keep from tripping as he flashed down the stairs, buttoning his jacket when he reached the door. A moment to breathe, then he swung it open.

Standing with her back to the street, her hair pulled in a tight ponytail, was Molly. Her coat flapped in the wind and she pulled it tighter as she took a tentative step into the doorway. She smiled, her lips a brighter shade of pink than they’d been the day before. He realised she was wearing lipstick. "Hi, sorry, I’m not early, am I?"

Jim motioned for her to enter. "No. Right on time. Come up, I’ll show you the flat."

She followed him up the stairs, glancing around. "This is a lovely place. Must cost a bit?"

"Helps to know the landlady. Got a discount for helping her get rid of an annoying husband." Seeing her face, he laughed. "Oh, no, nothing like that."

Molly smiled. "Um, so you helped her arrange a divorce?"

"Execution actually, which is better because you don’t have to deal with custody battles or alimony." She didn’t laugh, so he let silence fill the void until they reached the top of the stairs. "Right," he gestured inside. "This is the place. It’s a little untidy..."

Stopping beside Jim in the doorway, clutching her bag like a shield between them, Molly peered in. "No, no, it’s, um, it’s very nice. Yes, perfect, actually. I-I mean, if we decide... Well, if this works out."

"Good." Jim entered the room, lifting the bowl from the table. "Biscuit?"

"Uh, no, thanks." Flashing a smile that faltered at the edges, Molly stepped through. Jim fixed his gaze on her as she surveyed the room, trying to read her expression.

"You can have a look around if you want. I don’t mind. The spare room’s upstairs," he told her.

Shaking her head, Molly lowered herself into one of the chairs, folding her coat carefully over her legs. "No, thanks, I’m sure it’s lovely." She placed her hands on her knees. "We should probably talk a bit first."

He nodded, taking the opposite seat. "Of course."

"So..." Molly took a deep breath. "What sort of a flatmate are you looking for?"

"I wasn’t looking." Taking one of the biscuits, Jim bit through and began to chew, waiting until he’d swallowed before speaking again. "But since you’re here... A quiet one. The quieter the better."

She laughed. "I’m good at quiet."

"Well I’m not. Would that be a problem?" Jim brushed the crumbs from his shirt. "I sometimes play Bach at full volume. The neighbours hate it—might be why I do it. I slam doors when I’m cross. Do you mind any of that?"

"Er, no, I suppose not," Molly shrugged. "I’m working during the week, so we won’t see much of each other anyway."

"Good." Beep. His head shot towards the phone. "Excuse me." Lurching to his feet, he grabbed the phone and checked the screen. His teeth bared in a face-splitting grin. "Oh, honey, I knew you’d come around."

"Sorry, what?" Molly’s voice made him turn his head.

"Nothing, just a text I was waiting for. Well," he cleared his throat. "This has been fun. Nice first visit, if I do say so. Come back tomorrow. We can talk more."

Her lips pulled together tightly and she rose. "Sorry, are you throwing me out?"

Jim hesitated. "No, no," he assured her. "Just hurrying things along. I’m afraid I have somewhere to be."

"The text?"

"Yes."

Sighing, Molly picked up her bag. "I’m sorry I’m taking up your time."

He held up his hands. "Oh, no, not at all. It’s been a very enjoyable... two minutes. Meet me tomorrow, and we can finish working out the details."

"I thought you were being evicted today."

"Yes... Right." Forcing a laugh, Jim put his phone in his pocket. "Well, I’m sure I can convince Mrs. Hudson to let me stay on a bit longer. Like I said, she owes me a favour."

Molly shrugged, her shoulders sagging just a little. "Alright then, I’ll be off."

She was almost to the door when Jim raised his hand. "Miss Hooper, wait."

"Molly, please." She looked over her shoulder. "What is it?"

His feet pattering on the carpet, Jim edged towards her. "You’re a pathologist."

"Um..." She pretended to consider. "Yes. I am. We met at Bart’s, remember?"

Jim’s lips curled back in what he hoped was a smile. "Seen plenty of unusual deaths—suicides, murders?"

Her eyes widened. "Well, yes, but I don’t see—"

"Want to see another one?"

"What?"

Their eyes remained locked for a long moment, then Jim stepped closer. "Just got a text from the police. They’ve found a body—exact cause of death unknown, but in all probability related to a string of similar deaths. They want me to look into it."

"...You’re a policeman?"

"No."

She shook her head, staring at the ground. "I don’t understand..."

"Consulting detective." He tried to keep the pride from his voice. "I’m a specialist. The police use me when they’re too stupid to do the job themselves."

"But the police don’t work like that," objected Molly. "They don’t consult amateurs."

Widening his grin, Jim nodded. "Exactly." He joined her in the doorway. "I’m going down to the crime scene. Wanna come?"

Her nose wrinkled. "You want me... to come see a murder?"

"You said you’ve seen them before."

"I do postmortems. I’m not a detective."

He laughed. "Good, don’t like competition."

Those thin eyebrows drew together. "Look, I really shouldn’t come..."

"Then DON’T!" Seeing her stiffen, he softened his voice. "Sorry." He tilted his head from side to side as he looked at her. "You said murder—I didn’t say it was a murder."

"Well, it is, isn’t it?" Molly said. "The way you were talking— And, well, you don’t seem the sort who’d be interested in anything less..."

He let his smile light his eyes. "Very good. I like you, Molly Hooper."

Biting her lip and looking down, Molly wrung her hands. "Um, yes, well, thanks. Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright, I’ll go with you."

He kept his face as blank as he could. "Good. Off we go then. Don’t want to keep the detective inspector waiting."

Their footsteps echoed down the staircase. Jim tried to keep from dashing through the door.

The great game had begun.


	3. Chapter 2

It was quiet except for the sound of the engine. Molly sat as near to the door as possible, her bag sitting between herself and Jim. Her fingers wove through her hair, pulling her ponytail tighter. The cab stopped at the lights, and she listened to the traffic hooting outside and the engine rumbling as the car idled.

"I should probably tell you a tiny bit more about this case." Jim’s voice was even softer than usual and slightly stilted.

"Yeah," Glancing at Jim, she felt a coldness at the base of her spine, like she was staring into the eyes of a reptile. It was a feeling she couldn’t shake, and the closeness of the cab only made it worse.

Leaning back, Jim began. "It started earlier this month. Prominent businessman commits suicide in his home via poison, everyone’s sad, life goes on. Happened again—a woman kills herself with the same poison, also in her home. Both were known to be depressed, so no biggie. Then it happened a third time. Another man kills himself, same scenario. Serial suicides."

"But that’s impossible," Molly shook her head. "You don’t get ‘serial suicides’—you just don’t."

He grinned, his white teeth shining in the dim light of the cab. "That’s why it’s interesting. The police have managed to keep the details from the press, but not me."

"That’s why you were at Bart’s," Molly realised. "You were looking up the cases on Meena’s computer!"

Jim seemed taken aback. " _Good_ ," he breathed. "Not many people would have gotten that so quickly. The police wouldn’t tell me anything—there’s just a  _chance_ they might hate me—so I had to do my own investigating. Practically sold my soul." His upper lip curled down. "Have you ever had to explain where the power button is? Over and  _over_ ?" Shaking his head, he continued. "Anyway, the autopsy reports all listed the same poison. They have to be connected—easy peasy. But how?"

"And now there’s been another one?" Molly concluded.

Jim nodded.

"But you said it was a murder, not a suicide."

"No," he shook his head, " _you_ said it was a murder. But I think you’re right."

She shrugged. "Makes more sense than serial suicides."

"Exactly."

They lapsed into silence.

Molly watched Jim. His gaze was now directed at the window, the passing sights reflecting in his eyes. Resting his chin in his hand, he seemed to forget she was there. She wondered what he was thinking.

Doubts continued to cloud her mind as she considered what she was doing—moving in with someone she’d just met, now visiting a potential murder scene with him. But when she looked at him, somehow it seemed to make sense. It unnerved her.

"How did you know?" she asked.

He lifted his head, turning around. "What?"

"About my dad."

"Oh. That." Waving his hands dismissively, he sunk further into his seat. "It was obvious."

"How?" Her voice was insistent.

Jim shrugged. "You have a light tan—not the sort of thing you’d pick up in London. That, plus the fact I’d never seen you before, indicated you were new on the job and probably just moved to London from the country. But your familiarity around the lab and with Meena shows you’ve been here before. Therefore, a former Londoner back from an extended stay in the country. But why?" His eyebrows rose. "Why would a pathologist move out to the country? Certainly not for career reasons, so it must have been something personal. Either family or romantic attachment, clearly. Family’s a bit more likely."

Molly frowned.

"So, some family crisis brought you out to the country. Sickness or death—you wouldn’t leave your career behind for less. Now, if it was death, you wouldn’t have spent so long there, so, sickness. Someone in your family was sick—parent makes the most sense. Since you’re back, that means they either got better or they died." Jim looked down at his folded hands. "Died, obviously. That’s what people  _do_ ." Looking up, he smiled, his lips forming a thin line. "Father was just a guess, but I had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. See—obvious."

It was a few moments before Molly responded. "You can read all that about a person—just by looking?" She received a nod of affirmation. "People must hate you."

"Oh, they do," he laughed, more stilted than before. "They do."

Nothing more was said until they reached the address the police had specified. It was a nice building, humble but well-maintained. As the cab came to a halt Molly saw the flashing of red and blue lights and police milling about the front entrance. Jim sprang out the door before the cabbie had even cut the engine.

Scrambling after him and nearly tripping on the sidewalk, Molly stopped in front of the tape cordoning the entrance. Jim had already ducked under it.

"Mr. Moriarty." A plain-clothed woman stood stiffly in the doorway, arms folded across her chest.

"Donovan." Jim greeted her with a mock salute.

She arched a brow, her curls bobbing from side to side as she shook her head. "You shouldn’t be here."

Shrugging, Jim slipped past her and into the apartment complex. "I was summoned."

"Yeah, you were." She sighed. "I wish I didn’t need you, but dammit, I have to face facts."

Jim looked just a little too pleased with himself. "Lead on, Detective Inspector." His gaze met Molly’s. "Molly, quit dawdling out there and follow ME!"

Pushing aside the tape with a shaky hand, Molly passed through the mob of police, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the ground. She could feel Donovan’s stare as she joined them inside the building.

"Who’s this then?" the policewoman demanded.

"My assistant," answered Jim with a flourish. "Molly Hooper—pathologist at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Molly, this is Detective Inspector Sally Donovan, Scotland Yard."

Smiling unconsciously, Molly offered her hand. The other woman didn’t take it. Instead she appraised her with the same arched brow she’d given Jim.

"Assistant? Since when do you have an assistant?"

"A teensy bit last minute, I’ll admit," said Jim, bouncing up the stairs. "Alright, where’s this body of yours?"

Donovan led them to one of the rooms, the door already ajar and more officers swarming inside. In the centre of the room, one hand curled tightly around the leg of an old sofa, the other clutching something close to his chest, sprawled the stiff form of a man. Molly noted the greying hair and the pair of glasses lying a few inches from his face, one of the lenses cracked. He was face-down in a pool of vomit, and the room had begun to fill with the stench of death. It was a smell she knew well.

"His name’s Jeff Hope," Donovan announced. "Just a simple cabbie. Divorced, two kids."

A weasel-faced man who had been bending over the body looked up. "Oh, look who it is."

Jim’s smile reminded Molly of a shark’s hungry gaze. "Always a pleasure to see you too, Anderson."

"I hear you texted Donovan about this one before it happened," the man sneered. "Sure he isn’t one of yours?"

"I simply offered my opinion—that there’d be another victim—can I help it if I’m always right?" Circling the corpse, Jim’s eyes seemed to grow blacker and he smiled to Anderson. "I know a thousand better ways to kill someone than this. Remember that while you sleep tonight, honey."

Donovan snorted. "Can we get back to the issue at hand? There’s a body, lying here, on the floor. Just in case you missed it."

Bringing his hands together with a clap, Jim nodded. He spun on his heel. "Molly."

"Yes?" She rubbed her arm, her eyes still on the corpse. It was different like this, somehow. This man hadn’t come out cold and neat from a freezer. He still lay in the place he had died, looking like he might get up at any moment. It made him seem both more alive and more dead at the same time.

"You’re the pathologist," Jim drawled. "Tell me about him."

Inhaling deeply, Molly approached the dead man. Her feet sank soundlessly into the thick carpet as she tiptoed forward. As she knelt, she could see the grey skin and the stiff posture, sights that were totally familiar in her world. But this wasn’t her world. She tried not to wrinkle her nose in disgust as her fingers brushed against the cold, clammy hand. "Died of asphyxiation," she said as she leaned closer, examining his face. "Choked on his own vomit. Could be poison."

"It  _is_ poison," insisted Jim. 

Donovan nodded. "We found an empty vial on the floor—just like the other ones. They  _have_ to be related, but god help me, I don’t know how." Her eyes shifted to Jim.

"I’m working on it." He rubbed his chin, pacing the room. His jacket flared dramatically behind him. "You’re sure the poison is always self-administered?"

"Definitely."

"Hmm."

Anderson barely concealed the mockery in his laugh. "Don’t have an answer for once?"

Licking her lips, Molly bent her head closer to the hand the man held to his chest. Something black and shiny glinted within, concealed by his stiff fingers. "What’s he holding?"

"Mobile phone," said Anderson.

Jim shoved past him. "Let me see."

"Oi, gloves, Mr. Moriarty," Donovan chided, pulling his hand away from the corpse.

Making a great show of sighing, Jim received a pair of latex gloves from one of the officers and pulled them on. Then he was dancing back to the corpse, deftly prying the man’s fingers apart and removing the phone they clenched. Sticky prints from the dead man’s hand covered the screen, but Molly could see nothing that would warrant clutching it so defensively in his last moments.

Light flooded over Jim’s face as he unlocked the screen. "Hmm." Was that disappointment she read in his eyes?

"What is it?" Donovan was at his side in an instant.

"Nothing." Lowering the phone, Jim shrugged. "Just the contacts list. He must have been trying to phone help as he was dying." He handed the phone to Anderson, his posture sagging. "At least now we know it wasn’t suicide."

"Oh, and how’s that?" Anderson scoffed.

Jim’s eyes became slits. "Figure it out."

"Mr. Moriarty," warned Donovan. "You shouldn’t even be here, so unless you start helping..."

"Look at the contacts!" Jim threw up his hands, as if lecturing a very young and very stupid child. "What do you see? What do you SEE? Seven doctors! This man was sick—maybe dying. Only reason he’d be seeing so many doctors. But THINK. If he’s seeing doctors, he’s trying to cheat death. He doesn’t want to die—he was doing everything he could to live."

"Maybe he couldn’t take it any longer," suggested Anderson. "He killed himself to end the suffering."

Jim whirled away, turning his back on Anderson. "Shut UP! I can’t think when I’m surrounded by stupidity." He clenched his fists. "No, no, no, this man _was_ depressed—who wouldn’t be?—but he didn’t kill himself. Why, though, why are all the victims depressed? To make them look like suicides? But how does the killer know?"

"What killer?" asked Donovan. "Right now everything points to suicide. Impossible suicides, but suicides nonetheless."

Molly edged away from the scene, folding her arms as she positioned herself out of the way. Police were still milling through the room. Her eyes remained locked on Jim and Donovan, but they seemed to have forgotten her existence.

"Were any of the victims seeing therapists?" asked Jim, drifting around the room, hands on his hips.

Donovan shrugged. "I think the third one was. Don’t know about the others—all the families could tell us was that the victims were unhappy and the suicides didn’t come as a surprise. Does it matter?"

"It might." He sank his face against an enclosed fist. "I need more information. You can’t solve a puzzle with incomplete data!" Spinning around, he suddenly sprinted for the door. "Sorry, have to go!"

"Moriarty!" Donovan tried to grab his arm, but he was already out the door. "Dammit," she spat. "I hate that man sometimes!"

"Sometimes?" echoed Anderson with a sneer.

Suddenly the room felt too big and Molly felt too small. Padding softly across the carpet, she tried to avoid eye contact with the officers she passed. Before she made it out, there was a tap on her shoulder. Anderson was scrutinizing her with narrowed eyes.

"What are you doing with that psycho anyway?" he whispered.

She swallowed. "I’m... Well, we’re going to share the rent. Flatmates, you know. And he invited me down here..." Holding her head straighter, she added, "I am a pathologist."

"Well, if you want my advice, stay away from Jim Moriarty. He’s insane." The man shook his head. "He enjoys murders. They’re his favourite thing. Wouldn’t be surprised if he decides to give them a try himself one day—if he hasn’t already. You’re better off far, far away from him."

Molly felt like she should say something, but her mouth was dry of words. With a limp smile she nodded, hurrying down the stairs. When she emerged into the sunlight, both Jim and the taxi were gone. Sighing, she pushed aside the tape and started a long walk down the street.

Somehow this wasn’t turning out to be a regular Saturday afternoon.

The low purr of an engine grew in volume behind her. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed a sleek Jaguar crawling beside the sidewalk. She decided to ignore it.

The car drew up alongside her and came to a halt. One of the rear doors swung open, a woman in a suit skirt leaning out. Her smile was friendly and casual, but the ice in her eyes made Molly fall back several paces. "Hello," the woman said. "Do you need a lift?"

"No—thank you. I’m fine." The wide seats and elegant leather interior did look inviting, but Molly shook her head firmly. "I’m going to find a cab."

The woman’s smile dropped slightly. "You don’t want to be hunting about for a cab all day. I’ll be happy to take you."

"I’m fine, really."

Now all the sugar was gone from her voice. "Get in the car. Please."

Molly wondered if she should walk away. "Why?"

"Please, Miss Hooper."

She froze. "How do you know who I am?"

"Get in."

Against her better judgement, Molly climbed into the car. As soon as she closed the door, the lock clicked down. The woman smiled. "Sorry, orders. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you get home safely."

"What’s going on?" Molly demanded. "Who are you?"

The car started, pulling away from the sidewalk and continuing down the street. Pressing against the window, Molly tried to discern the intended destination.

"Relax." All smiles again, the woman leaned back, her voice flowing like silk. "You’re just here for a chat."

Yanking at the door handle and the lock, Molly began pounding on the glass. "Let me out!"

"It’s okay, really. I just want to talk to you. I’m Anthea."

Seeing she wasn’t going to get out by force, Molly fell back against the chair and shrugged blandly. "I’m Molly Hooper, but you seem to already know that."

Anthea nodded. "We know a lot of things. Let’s talk about Jim Moriarty. You met him yesterday?"

With effort Molly kept her voice even. "How could you know about that?"

"You’re planning to move in with him," Anthea continued, ignoring her question. "That’s a bit sudden. Do you mind if we ask why?"

"Who are you? Really?" She found herself wishing she had Jim’s powers of deduction. "What do you mean be ‘we’?"

A smile. "Sorry, I’m not authorized to tell you that. Now, what is your connection to Jim Moriarty?"

"I barely know him. We’re only moving in together so we can share the rent."

"I see." Pulling a phone from her pocket, Anthea began typing something. She held the screen close to her face, concealing its contents. "Do you normally move in with people you’ve just met?"

Molly felt her cheeks grow hot. "Why am I here? What do you  _want_ ? You can’t really care about who I’m moving in with."

"Actually, it matters a lot to us." Her fingers continued to work across the screen. "Does Jim Moriarty trust you?"

The question made her pause. "I don’t know. I suppose not—not really. Why should he when we just met?"

Anthea looked up from the phone, her lips parting in a smile that would have seemed friendly under different circumstances. "Yet he trusted you enough to bring you along on a case, and you trusted him enough to go."

Molly stroked the fine leather, her eyes dropping away from Anthea.

"All we want is your cooperation," said Anthea. "You could use a little extra money, couldn’t you? Yeah, of course you could. Everyone needs a little luxury in their life. We could be very generous."

It was all beginning to feel like a strange dream. "What," Molly began slowly. "What would you want in return?"

"Not much," the woman assured her. "A bit of information here and there. Nothing indiscreet. Just give us updates on what Moriarty’s doing, where he’s going, what cases he’s working on. You can omit anything you don’t feel comfortable telling us. And for your troubles, you get a nice fat cheque in the mail every month. That sounds fair?"

"No." She surprised herself with her answer. Anthea really wasn’t asking for much, and it wasn’t as though Jim had earned any loyalty from her. Already she could picture the things she could buy if she had just a little extra income. But she shook her head. "Sorry, I’m not interested."

Anthea tapped away on the phone, her face growing harder. "Don’t make up your mind just yet. Think about it."

Breathing deeply, Molly tipped up her nose defiantly. "I’m not a sellout."

"You can’t sell out someone you barely know."

"I don’t care. Please let me out."

Typing something on her phone, Anthea gestured to the driver. The car came to a smooth stop, and Molly realised for the first time they’d reached Baker Street. With a click the doors unlocked. She grabbed the handle and shoved her way out.

"Remember," Anthea said, reaching to pull the door closed, "the offer stands. We’ll be in touch." The car pulled away, leaving Molly to stare after it from the busy sidewalk.

* * *

Jim’s knuckles rapped against the wood. Within, he heard footsteps approaching, and he dragged his hands down his face, mussing his hair. Blinking several times, his eyes grew watery. The door opened.

"Hello," a tall woman greeted him.

Assuming a London accent, Jim nodded to her. "Hi, s-sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you..."

"Not at all," the woman pulled the door open wider. "Is something the matter, love?"

"I-I’ve been out of town a few weeks and I just heard the news." Several precisely-timed cracks were inserted into his nasally voice. "About E-Emily."

The woman nodded sympathetically. "It was a shock to us all. Did you know my sister well?"

"We were at friends at work." Jim sniffed, wiping his eyes with the corner of his sleeve. "I can’t believe she’s dead. I j-just came round to say how sorry I am."

"Oh, isn’t that sweet of you." Patting his shoulder, the woman gestured inside. "Do you want to come in for a cup of tea, love?"

He shook his head. "No, no, I have to be off in a minute." Another sniff. "I still can’t believe it. I thought—I thought she said she was going to get therapy!"

"She did. She told me she was seeing someone every week." The sister sighed. "Wasn’t enough I suppose, poor dear."

"Who was she seeing?"

Her brow creasing as she considered, the woman shrugged. "I don’t know, I think it was some woman... A Dr. Thomas? No—Thompson." She frowned. "Why do you ask?"

Jim stopped sniffing. "Just curious. Well, thank you for your time. Good afternoon." He flashed a smile and turned away.

His last errand completed, he hurried back to Baker Street in the cab. On the way, he couldn’t help chuckling to himself. He let his hands hang at his sides, the wrists forgotten.

When he reached Baker Street, his brow rose at the sight of Molly Hooper at the front door, pacing up and down the short steps.

"Molly." He smiled. "Hello again. I thought you’d have gone home."

She spun around at the sound of his voice, a relieved smile crossing her lips momentarily, only to be replaced by a frown and folded arms. "Jim."

His feet clipped on the steps. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Do you know someone named Anthea?"

The name scrolled through his mind, bringing up several results but each one was dismissed. "No. Why?"

"Because I met her, and she seemed very interested in you." Molly began pacing again. "She kept asking how I knew you and offered to pay me a lot of money to tell her everything you did. I said no."

Silence settled over them. Jim nibbled his lower lip, turning the name over in his mind. It remained unfamiliar. "Must be a fan," he shrugged. "Probably a little obsessed."

"You have fans?" Molly raised an eyebrow.

"No." He laughed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Enemy, then? I have plenty of those. Most just glare at me from a distance, though." Shifting his head from side to side, he studied her. "Why didn’t you take the money?"

"I’m not going to spy on people."

Jim found himself smiling. "Pity, we could’ve done with the money now that I’m unemployed. Well, darling, I need to make a phone call. Do you want me to ring you a cab?" He inserted his key into the lock.

"I... Alright, I guess so." She lingered on the last step. "But, um, I was—I was hoping you might tell me why you ran off."

Pausing as he turned the key, Jim remarked, "Oh, is that why you were hanging around here? Alright then, pop in. I’ll make us some tea and we’ll have a little chat."

When he swung the door open there was a clatter on the steps. "Jim!" Looking up, he saw a pair of feet marching down the stairs. An older woman reached the bottom, shaking her head. " _Jimmy_ ," she chided.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," Jim drawled.

"Jim, what did I tell you?" the woman sighed. "You have to have the rent by today or you can’t stay here any longer. I’m sorry, dear, but it’s been two months and I can’t let you stay for free, you know. Oh, who’s this?" She noticed Molly.

"Uh, hello." Molly raised a hand in a wave. "I’m Molly."

Chortling, Mrs. Hudson beamed at Jim. "Ooh, have you got a girlfriend?"

Jim narrowed his eyes. "New flatmate. She’ll be helping out with the rent. Not to worry, you’ll get your money."

Still giggling to herself, Mrs. Hudson followed them as they tramped up the stairs. "A flatmate. Oh, Jim, this is going to be lovely! I did say you needed some company, didn’t I? Always up here by yourself, it’s not right. You should have some friends. I’m so glad you’ve met someone."

Tuning her out, Jim flung himself into a chair. "Some tea, please, Mrs. Hudson."

"I’m not your housekeeper, dear." Mrs. Hudson turned to Molly. "You’ve been very quiet. Tell me about yourself, what do you do?"

Jim sniggered.

"I-I work at the hospital," said Molly. "Pathologist. I do postmortems."

There was a pause. "Oh!" Mrs. Hudson recovered her smile. "How interesting. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

"No sugar with mine, thanks," said Jim, taking his phone from his pocket.

"I didn’t say I was making you any." There were sounds of crockery clinking as Mrs. Hudson scurried to the kitchen.

Molly settled in the other chair. "Well," she drew a long breath. "You said we’d talk."

"One moment," he mouthed, pressing the call button.

After a moment of static a woman’s voice greeted him. "Hello, Ella Thompson’s office?"

"Hi, is this is Jim Moriarty. I want to schedule an appointment. As soon as possible, yes." He flashed a smile at the waiting Molly. "Tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock? Wonderful, thank you. My doctor recommended her—depression, you understand. Alright, good, I’ll be there tomorrow. Chow!"

By then Mrs Hudson had returned with the tea. "Here you are, dear." She handed a steaming cup to Molly. "And here, Jim, I don’t know why I do it but I made you a cup too."

Accepting it with a nod of thanks, he waved her away. "Molly and I would like to talk now."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. "Alone, I suppose? Alright, I’m going. No one wants an old woman around, do they? I’ll see you later about that rent, Jimmy."

Once her footsteps had faded, Jim put down his cup and nodded to Molly. "So."

"Um, sorry," her nose crinkled as she spoke, "but... what was all that about on the phone? Sorry, if it’s none of my business..."

"Oh, no, no, no, part of the case," he assured her. "Now, you wanted to know why I raced off like that?"

"You did sort of leave me in the lurch."

Jim shrugged. "Had to test a theory, Molly girl. I was right." He dragged the last word out in a singsong manner. "And if I  _stay_ right, I may just have this case solved before lunchtime tomorrow." 

"Okay," said Molly slowly. "But you’re not actually going to tell me what this theory is?"

"No." His cheeks pulled up but it wasn’t truly a smile. "Prefer to keep my cards close until I play ‘em. Easier that way. Sorry." Sipping the last of his tea, he jerked his head towards the door. "I can call that cab now."

She frowned. "What? Oh—oh yes, of course. Um..."

"Or you could stay here."

A nervous, rabbit-like gleam entered Molly’s eyes and she dropped her cup in its saucer. "What?"

"Stay the night here," Jim repeated calmly. "We’ll call it a trial run. The spare bedroom’s not furnished, I’m afraid, but I don’t mind taking the couch. Done it plenty of times—often drop off there while I’m thinking." A muted giggle. "Sometimes even my  _own_ thoughts bore me."

"Oh. Well." Molly licked her lips. "I suppose... If you really don’t mind..." She pulled her shoulders closer together, wrapping her hands around her arms. "I guess it’ll be nice to get a feel for the place."

Jim found himself smiling. "I’ll be in my room—it’s a  _little_ bit messy so I’ll clean all that right up for you. Make yourself at home, Molly Hooper."


	4. Chapter 3

Throwing open the windows, Molly tried to fan away the grey clouds filling the apartment. She coughed as she returned to the kitchen, gingerly lifting the saucepan from the stove and depositing it in the sink. With a spatula she tried to scrape away the charred remnants clinging to the bottom, falling away in black flakes. Her favourite cherry-patterned blouse now smelled like a fireman’s jacket.

There was a creak as Jim’s door opened. "Molly?"

"In here," she called.

He tramped into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the messy stove. Smoke still hung like a choking blanket over the room. "Am I to assume there was a failed arson attempt or did you try to cook something?"

"Sorry." The lightness of his tone allowed her to laugh. "Since you’re letting me have your room, I thought the least I could do was make supper." Her eyes dropped to the blackened pan. "Not so sure that was a good idea..."

"Not as fun as arson," he agreed.

She glanced at the stove. "I’ll clean up the mess. And, er, the air should clear soon."

"And then I think we should order takeout. Better for the insurance premiums."

Smiling, Molly continued to scrub at the pan. "I’m glad you’re not cross."

"Well," he shrugged, "what’s a little accidental arson between friends?"

Molly looked down at the pot, keeping her concentration fixed furiously on the scrubbing. "Friends? Is that what we are?"

"Not if you don’t want to be." Jim fanned the air, coughing. "We could be enemies if you’d like. It’d give you a reason to spy on me. Might be fun."

Smiling in spite of herself, she shook her head. "No, friends—friends is good. It’s been awhile since I had a proper friend. I mean, there’s Meena, but..."

"If you ask me, friends are just a little overrated." Jim crossed the room, hands in his pockets. "What do you  _do_ with them? They’re like toys—play with them awhile, hug them and tell them you love them, then throw them away when a fancier one comes along. And no one wants a broken one." 

The scrubbing intensified. "Friends are important. We all need someone to count on sometimes," said Molly.

"Nah." Rubbing his hands together, Jim’s face brightened. "Well, I should order that food. The bedroom’s all ready, by the way. It’s yours whenever you want it."

"Thanks."

Half an hour later, Molly was sprawled on the couch with a box of noodles in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other. Jim sat opposite her, his legs crossed, balancing a box on his knees. The room still smelled of smoke but the rich, spicy aroma of Chinese takeout had begun to infuse the air.

Swallowing a mouthful of pasta, Molly looked at Jim. "It’s been a funny day, hasn’t it?"

"Mm?" He glanced up. "Oh."

"Not—not a bad day though. God," she laughed, "I shouldn’t say this, it-it sounds wrong, but... I enjoyed going with you to the crime scene." Leaning back, she tugged off her hairband and let her hair cascade loosely over her shoulders as she buried herself in the plush couch. "It isn’t the sort of day I expected to have."

Jim picked at his food with the chopsticks. "They say life’s full of surprises."

"You sound like you don’t believe that."

"Oh, I do." He chewed the noodles. "Doesn’t have to be that way though. If you think and plan and analyse hard enough, you don’t ever have to be surprised by anything."

Molly rested her head in her hand. "Then where would the fun be?"

"Strange words coming from someone who likes the predictable."

"What do you mean?"

"You work in a morgue, my dear. Cadavers make good company, don’t they? Always quiet. Never ask stupid questions. The kind of friends who don’t judge."

"You’re saying I’m a pathologist because I prefer dead people?"

"You like people who do what you expect." His head tilted. "And yet here you are. Having supper with me."

She smiled. "We all do silly things."

Gradually, the sky grew black and the lights of the city came on like a million fireflies. Discarded cardboard boxes lined the counter, pieces of pasta still sticking to the sides. A chess board lay on the table, half the white pieces lying captured nearby while the remaining pieces stood on the board in the place of their last battle.

Buried behind a book, Jim was stretched out on the couch. Molly tottered into the kitchen, blinking herself awake as she tossed the empty takeout cartons in the trash. "I’m off to bed," she told Jim, passing the couch. "Goodnight."

"Mm." He didn’t look up from the book.

Yawning, Molly pushed the bedroom door open with a creak. She rubbed her eyes and plopped onto the narrow bed. True to Jim’s word, the room was neat, if a little dusty. The top of the dresser was bare, the walls uncluttered. Plain to the point of impersonal. Her eyes roved the cabinets. The impromptu sleepover had left her without any of her usual night things, and she certainly wasn’t going to sleep in her smoky cherry blouse and slacks.

There were two tall wardrobes, crammed together against the wall. She rose from the bed and inched towards them. Jim wouldn’t mind if she borrowed one of his shirts to sleep in, would he? He  _had_ told her to make herself at home. 

Her fingers brushed over the polished mahogany surface of the left wardrobe, enclosing around the knob and pulling it with a creak. Dust fell from the edges of the door as it opened. When she peered into the darkness her brow furrowed. A row of neat, expensive-looking suits lined the rack, the sleek fabric coated in a thin layer of dust. Molly rubbed one of the sleeves between her fingers, noting the unmistakable feeling of quality. How much had these suits cost? Certainly far more than a man who needed someone to share the rent with could afford. Why would he leave them in a dusty closet, unused?

She stared for a long minute before closing the door and trying the other wardrobe. Better luck awaited her this time and she browsed through a rack of casual clothes before finding a long white shirt. Pulling it from its hanger, she tugged off what she was wearing and slid into the shirt, fumbling with the buttons.

Her gaze drifted back to the first closet as she yanked back the bedcovers. Just how much did she know about Jim?  _I met him yesterday_ , she reminded herself. And now she was climbing into his bed—thankfully empty of Jim himself, of course. It felt like she’d known him longer. Yet when she thought back, she realised how little she actually knew  _about_ him. Somehow their conversations always seemed to centre on her.  _He said he likes to play his hands close to his chest_ , she thought. 

As sleep began to overtake her, thoughts of Jim slipped from her mind and she pressed against the pillows, drawing the covers closer. It had been a good day.

* * *

Molly awoke to the smell of crumpets. Getting dressed in yesterday’s things and hastily returning the shirt to its hanger, she pulled open the door. Jim stood in the kitchen, layering syrup over a tray of crumpets in neat dollops. Steam issued from the kettle and two empty cups waited nearby, teabags hanging over their sides. Running a hand through her dishevelled hair, Molly inhaled the welcoming aromas deeply.

"Good morning." Jim hummed as he finished arranging the crumpets. "Breakfast’s almost ready."

She sank into a chair. "Thanks." The morning traffic sounded through the open window, and the smell of smoke had finally fled the room. "Lovely day."

"I hadn’t noticed." Cutlery jangled. "Sleep well?"

"Oh, yes, thank you. I hope the couch was alright?"

He nodded. "Used to it. So, you like the flat? You’re going to stay then?"

Molly found herself laughing. "Of course. I thought we’d settled that already."

"Just making sure." Jim poured out the tea. "Mrs. Hudson says you can move in any time you like."

"I’ll do that right away," said Molly. "Don’t want to pay for my hotel room any longer than I have to. Everything’s still in boxes, so it’ll be easy to move."

Depositing the tray of tea and crumpets on the table with a clink, Jim sat down. "Wish I could stick around to help, but I have to dash soon. Counselling appointment. Isn’t that gonna be fun?"

"I wish you’d tell me what it’s all about." She sipped the tea.

"Nah, no one likes a performer to show how his tricks are done. Takes away all the mystery. And you like a mystery, don’t you?" He studied her.

She shrugged. "These crumpets are good."

"Well, not all of us aspire to arson in our cooking." He smiled.

Molly blushed. "Shut up."

The rest of the meal passed in amiable conversation. Taking one last sip and setting his cup on the empty tray, Jim leaned back. "Almost time for me to get going. Not sure when I’ll be back, but I’ll text you if anything exciting happens. Wouldn’t want you to miss the fun."

"Excitement? I thought you were going to see a psychologist."

"I am." He bounced to his feet. "Who  _knows_ what could happen."

Shaking her head, Molly rose as well. "I’ll be at the hotel, picking up all my things. Um... Do you know anyone with a van? Otherwise I’ll have to take multiple trips..."

Jim paused. "You might try Greg."

"Greg?"

"Sergeant Lestrade—Donovan’s right-hand man. Don’t worry, he’s not as repulsive as Anderson." Carrying the tray to the sink, Jim continued, "I’ll give him a ring. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to help."

"Okay. Thanks." Molly frowned. "What if he’s busy? I-I don’t want to be any trouble..."

"He won’t be."

It was outside the hotel, an hour later, that she met Greg. Molly was pacing the sidewalk, her eyes on the road. When the white lorry pulled up, she recognized the driver from Jim’s description—hair touched by silver, kind face (Jim had said dull), average build, bright eyes. As he got out the car, she hurried over. "Greg Lestrade?"

"Yeah?" He turned around. "Molly Hooper, I presume?"

She nodded, smiling. "Yeah, hi. Nice to meet you."

"You too," said Greg, rubbing his hands together. "So, you have some stuff that needs moving?"

They took the elevator to Molly’s room, where several stacks of boxes littered the floor. "Thanks for coming," Molly told him as he heaved one into his arms with a groan. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem." Grimacing, Greg lugged the box out the door and Molly followed with a lighter one.

"Do you know Jim well?" she asked as they loaded the boxes in the back of Greg’s car.

He shook his head. "No. Can’t say I want to either. Oh, don’t get me wrong—he’s helped us out before, and I don’t blame Donovan for calling him in even if it is against the rules, but..." Fastening the boxes down, Greg shrugged. "He’s one of the most annoying sods I’ve ever met."

"I suppose I can’t argue there," Molly giggled. "He’s not so bad though. He just likes to show off how clever he is."

A scowl crossed Greg’s face. "Well, I wish he’d keep his cleverness to himself sometimes."

Molly bit her lip. "You’re angry with him?"

"No. Well, yes. It’s not really his fault, I suppose," Greg sighed as they entered the lift. "But you tell him that next time he wants to make a deduction about where my wife’s been sleeping he can bloody well shut up."

"Oh." Molly fell silent.

They were huffing and sweating by the time the last boxes had been packed into the car, and Molly threw herself into the seat gratefully, wiping her brow. "God, I’m thirsty."

Greg shut the door as he climbed into the seat beside her. "Me too. Want to stop somewhere for a pint?" He started the engine.

"No, I need to get back to the flat," Molly sighed. "Lots of unpacking to do."

"So you’re really moving in with Jim Moriarty?" Greg asked as they pulled out the parking lot. "God help you."

"Yeah." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I don’t think I could live alone. Not yet, anyway. I lived with my dad for a year before he died." Running a hand over her hair, she smiled faintly. "It was nice. I mean, it was hard, he was sick, but—I got used to having someone to talk to. He was the only one who ever took me seriously. Mum always complained that I needed to get a proper job or a boyfriend or—or any of those things that normal people are supposed to have. Dad was never like that."

"You miss him."

"I do. We used to go for walks in the countryside every morning," she remembered. "Until he got too sick. Then he’d just sit in the garden and see to his roses. He liked roses, my dad. Said all the prettiest flowers had a few thorns." Wiping the corner of her eyes, she laughed. "Sorry, I’m probably boring you to death here."

Greg shook his head. "No, it’s fine, it’s good."

"There was a little cat that used to visit us sometimes—belonged to one of the neighbours," she continued. "It used to dig up my dad’s flowerbeds. He always said he hated that cat, but sometimes I’d come home to find him sitting on the bench with it asleep on his lap." Molly smiled. "I like cats. They seem so aloof till you get to know them, then you realise they need just as much love as any other creature. Maybe more."

"My wife has a dog," said Greg. "Never had any pets myself."

Molly leaned back. "I wish I had a cat," she said softly.

"Why don’t you get one?"

She laughed. "I couldn’t..."

"Why not?"

This made her pause. "I don’t know—I’m not sure if the landlady would approve. And then there’s Jim..."

"Don’t ask him," said Lestrade. "Just get one. What’s he going to do then?"

"But..." She began to giggle. "You know what? Let’s do that. Let’s get a cat. If he can run around solving murders I don’t see why I can’t have a cat."

Greg nodded. "That’s the spirit! Want me to drive you to a shelter?"

"Yes, thank you." She flashed Greg a smile. "Really, thank you. For everything."

* * *

There was a faint lavender scent to the air. A practised smile passed over Jim’s face as he entered the room, closing the door behind him with a click. "Hello."

"Good morning," returned the receptionist brightly.

"Jim Moriarty—I’m here for the ten o’clock appointment."

She nodded, opening a drawer in her desk. "Dr. Thompson will be just a minute. If you could fill out this form, please." The young woman dropped a sheet of paper down.

Grabbing a pen from the holder on her desk, Jim carefully signed his name at the top of the form, finishing with a flourish. "Um," he stammered, lowering his voice, "between you and me, what’s she like—the shrink?"

"You’ll like her," assured the receptionist.

"Is she good then?" He squinted at the form, deciding to get creative with some of the answers.

"She’s helped lots of people. I’m sure she can help you with your... depression, was it?"

He nodded. "Chronic depression. I hope so."

"Bad, is it?" Her eyes followed his hand as he wove the pen across the paper.

"Yeah."

The door opened. "Who’s next, Rachel?" a throaty voice called from within.

"A Mr. Jim Moriarty, Ella," the receptionist replied. She turned to Jim. "You can go in now."

Thanking her, he handed back the form and stepped into the office. His feet clomped on the hard floor. Swathes of fuzzy light streamed in from a pair windows on either side of the far wall, bouncing off dust motes in the air. The scent of lavender was even stronger inside, seeming almost to come from the floral-patterned walls. Jim straightened a bust on the oaken desk as he crossed the room, taking a comfy leather chair in the centre and offering a smile to the woman sitting opposite him.

She held her back rigidly straight, her hands folded over the open file on her lap. A pen was clutched between her fingers. Jim noted a wide ring on her right hand, topped by a garnet-coloured stone. Not a wedding ring. Unmarried then.

"Hey," he nodded.

She smiled, her teeth flashing brightly. "Hello, Mr. Moriarty—Jim." The thick stone beads on her necklace jingled together. "I understand your doctor recommended you see me?"

"Yeah. Seems to think I need help." He laughed softly.

"Do you?"

There was a tiny smudge of orange paint on the corner of her sleeve. Jim eyed it, deciding it was oil-based. Too lurid to be anything other than an artist’s paint—apparently Dr. Thompson had quite the creative streak when she wasn’t treating patients. He wondered what other offbeat avenues she pursued. He shrugged. "I don’t know. I just want to—I want to stop feeling like this."

"Feeling like what?" There was a scratching sound as she wrote in the file.

"Helpless. I-It’s like I’m trapped in the dark and I can’t get out, no matter what I do." Running a hand through his hair, he shook his head. "I hate it. I’d do anything to make it end."

"How long have you felt this way? Do you think there was any incident that triggered it?"

He paused as if to consider. "It feels like forever. I used to be happy... and then I started having bad days, and the bad days just got worse and worse. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just—I don’t know, jump off a bridge. Save everyone a lot of trouble."

Thompson’s voice softened. "Have you ever tried? To kill yourself?"

"No," he lied. "B-But I swear, if things don’t get better soon, I..." He felt proud of the perfect quaver in his voice as he trailed off.

"Things will get better, I promise," said Thompson. "That’s why you’re here. We can help you through this."

His jaw tightened. "Like you helped Jeff Hope?"

The therapist inhaled sharply. "What do you know about him?"

"He was a friend. I heard him talk about you. You didn’t help him though, did you? He’s dead now—he killed himself!"

"I’m very sorry about Jeff." She rubbed her forehead. "It was so completely unexpected—I thought we were making real progress. But I did do my best for him, and I will absolutely do my best for you, Jim. The fact that you’re here is a good sign—it means you don’t want to end up like Jeff. You want to fight this. And I know you can do it, even if it seems hard now. You want to get better."

He had to rein in a thin smile that threatened to curl up his lips. "I just want to stop feeling empty inside."

The session dragged on for what Jim felt must surely have been longer than an hour. He kept up his facade with the ease of a lifetime’s practise, batting around the psychologist’s probing questions with non-answers and pitiful declarations of woe. Sometimes he worried he was overdoing it a teensy bit, but the theatrics came too naturally to resist. Ella listened attentively, nodding and writing in her file, offering supportive comments and sifting through his words. He kept his eyes on the floor through much of the session, but whenever he met her gaze he tried to burn through her walls, searching for the spark beneath the calm exterior. If he was right, it had to be there somewhere, waiting for the right moment to ignite.

In the end the interview was less fruitful than he’d hoped. As he rose from the leather chair, the hour having reached its end, Ella put down her file and got to her feet as well. "I hope I’ll be seeing you again next week," she said.

"We’ll see." He smiled.

"And remember," she continued, "if you ever need me—for any reason—just call me and I’ll come right over. Day or night."

Nodding, Jim opened the door. Rachel was at her desk, shuffling papers. She looked up when he walked through. "Hello again, Mr. Moriarty. How did it go?"

A noncommittal shrug. "Okay, I guess."

"Would you like to schedule an appointment for next week?"

He couldn’t help snorting softly. "I don’t think that’ll be necessary."

She squinted at him. "Alright. It was nice meeting you."

On the cab ride back to 221B, he phoned Sally Donovan. "How’s the investigation coming along?"

"Could be better. Would be, actually, if you’d come down here and help us." Even over the phone, he could see her drawn eyebrows and down-turned mouth.

"Aren’t you the one who’s always saying you don’t need me?"

"I asked for your help. You ran out on me."

He smiled. "I  _am_ helping you. You just don’t know it yet."

"Moriarty," she warned, "you’re supposed to be working  _with_ us. If you’re conducting some kind of private investigation..."

"Have you gotten the autopsy report yet?" he asked.

He heard papers shuffling. "I have it right here on my desk. Victim died of asphyxiation, just like your girl said. Result of ??? poisoning, like the others."

The crackling of the line filled the silence as Jim paused in thought. "You don’t just pick that off a shelf at the local pharmacy," he mused. "Anything else?"

"Not yet—we’re still working."

"Let me know if anything new crops up." He cut the call before Donovan could come back with any snide remarks.

Reaching the flat, he hummed Rossini off-key as he marched up the stairs. A few telltale scrapes on the wall told him someone had been carting large objects up the steps. He remembered Molly. "All finished moving in yet?" he asked as he opened the door. He stopped dead.

"Jim! Hi," Molly beamed. Her hair was tied back and dust hung in clumps from the faded coat she wore, and she stood amongst a field of empty boxes. But none of that bothered him. "How was the meeting with the psychologist?"

He continued to stare.

"I’ve been cleaning the spare room," she said when he didn’t speak. "Got it looking good as new. It’s still a bit of a mess, but all the stuff’s been moved in, and Greg helped me shop for some cheap furniture. You just missed him."

A few strangled noises emerged from his throat.

Molly brushed her hands over herself, wiping off the dust. "Want me to put the kettle on?"

Raising an accusing finger towards his chair, he managed to open his mouth. "What—is—that?"

She followed his gaze. "Oh, you mean Toby?"

" _T-Toby_ ?"

With gentle hands Molly scooped the tabby cat from the chair, cuddling him against her chest. His ample mass sagged over her cradled arms. He raised a wide head, two yellow eyes gleaming in the light. The black pupils flicked up to Jim, narrowing as if in challenge. They remained locked in battle of wills until Jim was forced to look away. The yellow eyes kept on burning, and he could have sworn the cat looked smug.

"Do you like him?" Molly stroked the cat’s sleek fur.

"You never said anything about a cat," hissed Jim. "You don’t  _have_ a cat. You don’t."

She laughed. "I didn’t until today. It was Greg’s idea. Mrs. Hudson said it was fine, so we picked this guy up from the shelter. Isn’t he cute?"

It wasn’t often Jim found himself at a loss for words. "You can’t keep him," he said at last. "You  _can’t_ ."

"Why not?" She stepped closer. "Want to pet him?"

"No!" Jim edged back quickly.

She placed the cat back on the ground. Instead of returning to its—no,  _his_ chair—Jim was horrified to see it march towards him, tail raised cheerfully. He felt its furry body launch itself at his legs, rubbing against them with a ferocity that indicated an assertion of ownership rather than affection. He shook one of his feet, trying to nudge the animal away.

"See, he likes you," cooed Molly. "That’s a good boy, Toby. Say hello to Uncle Jim."

Already hairs were adhering to the legs of his pants. Jim scowled down at the creature—the  _vermin_ —next to him. He edged back.

Splashing milk into one of Jim’s best china saucers, Molly called the cat’s name and it came running. She set the milk down, whispering sugary inanities to the creature as it lapped it up. "Don’t worry, cats are very easy to look after and I’ll do all the work," she assured Jim. "You won’t even know he’s here!"

"But—" he spluttered, realising the futility of his protests.

Throwing off the dusty coat, Molly settled on the couch, drawing her legs up and hugging her knees. "You haven’t told me how it went yet."

He tried to recover himself. "How what went?"

"The appointment."

"Oh. That." Bending down, he began brushing his legs furiously. The cat hair clung stubbornly to his trousers. "Didn’t find out as much as I’d hoped."

Molly shrugged. "I can’t see what you were hoping to find anyway."

"Ella Thompson was Jeff Hope’s therapist." The fur wasn’t coming off. He frowned.

"Oh," said Molly thoughtfully.

Maybe he should just throw the pants away. Who knew what kind of diseases that animal might be carrying. "She was also the therapist of all three other victims."

"Ohh." Molly paused. "What does that mean?"

"Remember the phone." Jim stood up straight. "What did we find?"

"The contact list?"

He nodded. "Thompson’s number was there."

"Well, if she was his therapist..." said Molly. "It stands to reason he’d have her number."

"Molly." Jim took a seat beside her. "If you were dying, and you only had seconds to tell the world who murdered you, what would you do?"

She giggled awkwardly. "Shout their name very loud?"

He shook his head. "There’s no one around to hear. All you have is your phone, and you don’t have time to write it down. What’s the next best thing you could do?"

"I don’t know."

"Point to someplace where their name was already written down."


	5. Chapter 4

Anthea’s heels echoed as they clicked over the marble floor. The screech of the steel door announced her arrival in the gloomy office. Behind a sleek, exquisitely organized desk, the tall back of the chair faced her. Only a pair of steepled hands were visible behind the corners.

Clearing her throat, Anthea dropped a sheet of paper on the desk. "The latest surveillance update on Jim Moriarty. You’re not going to like it."

"I already heard." The chair swivelled slightly but didn’t turn around.

"What are you going to do?"

A sigh. "Nothing, for the present. We can’t tip our hand too early. Increase surveillance to Grade Three Active."

Anthea nodded. "Anything else?"

"This girl—Molly Hooper. Are you sure we can’t get through to her?"

"I don’t think so. Perhaps if we found the right incentive..."

The hands folded. "We’ll leave that as a last resort. I’d rather she came around on her own. What I don’t understand is what interest she could possibly hold for Moriarty. You checked her file personally?"

"Yes." Anthea nodded. "Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. She’s exactly who she says she is. A nobody."

A slow, deep breath. "Interesting."

* * *

Jim was evasive when Molly tried to draw conclusions from the hints he’d dropped her. He refused to reveal his theory or say what exactly he was planning, leading Molly to sigh and return to her room. It still lacked a few finishing touches, but she was proud as she surveyed the day’s work.

It was smaller than the bedroom she’d had at the cottage, and the windows didn’t look out onto green hills and clear skies, but it was cosy. Greg had had quite a time getting the furniture through the narrow door, but after much heaving and cursing they’d succeeded. She’d picked out the floral sheets and pillowcases while they were getting the dresser, and Greg had spotted the matching floral curtains. A few daisies in a vase completed the effect, and she was quite proud of her decorating skills as she looked around the room, hands on her hips.

Toby followed her as she flopped on the bed, nestling beside her feet. She patted his head and reached for the laptop on the dresser. The first thing she did once it booted up was check her emails. A few work related messages, but otherwise silence. It didn’t surprise her. Then she checked a different page, feeling her cheeks grow red.

The blog had been born of a long, tedious weekend at the hotel, after several failed attempts at socializing. Other people did it, she’d thought while setting it up, so why not her? It wasn’t as if anyone would read it. She remembered how silly she’d felt as she typed the first entry.

_"Hi. My name is Molly Hooper. I work at Barts Hospital. I'm 31. Sorry. This is sounding like a list. I'm not sure why I'm doing this. It's just nice to have someone to talk to."_

Molly smiled to herself, still blushing. She scrolled down. There was still only one comment—her own.

_"Hahaha!! That makes me sound so lonely! I meant it's nice to have somewhere I can share my feelings."_

It was funny how things could change in such a short space of time. Stretching her fingers, she began to type. The words came out unwillingly at first, but the more she wrote the more they flowed.

_"Hi, me again. It’s been an exciting weekend. I got a cat. And a flatmate. He’s very cute—the cat I mean!! His name’s Toby. My flatmate’s a detective named Jim Moriarty, and he’s working on a really interesting case right now. I’m helping him. I think. It’s very exciting, but I probably shouldn’t say any more about it. I like it here at my new flat, and I can’t wait to tell everyone at work about it tomorrow! They probably won’t care. Well, Meena might. Anyway, I should finish unpacking."_

Fondling a purring Toby while she closed the laptop, Molly breathed out contentedly.

The evening was a quiet one; Jim stayed in his room for much of it, muttering something about vermin, and Molly ate supper in the kitchen with Toby on her lap. Glaring at the stove, she’d heated a frozen dinner in the microwave and called Jim to offer him some, but he didn’t come out. After the meal Molly returned to her room, Toby draped precariously over her shoulder. It felt good to climb into her own bed. She snuggled beneath the covers and Toby lay next to her, warm and cuddly. There’d never been any contest when she was at the shelter—all the bright-eyed kittens in the world couldn’t change her mind when she saw Toby staring at her from his cage, meowing pitifully. Some of the cats shied away when she tried to pet them through the wire mesh; Toby nipped her fingers playfully. And he’d taken to Jim right away, not thrown at all by the new environment or all the strangers around him. She hugged him tighter.

The morning found her awake at dawn, rushing through a shower and change before running a comb through her hair. Jim was waiting with breakfast by the time she was done. There was no time to chat as she gulped down her coffee and filled a dish of food for Toby, glancing at the clock constantly.

"Don’t come straight back when you get off work," Jim told her as she was pulling on her coat.

"Why not?" She fastened it and patted Toby.

He shrugged with apparent nonchalance. "Just... stay out for a bit. Have a night on the town. I need the apartment to myself for awhile."

"Are-Are you having someone over?" Molly raised an eyebrow.

"Might be." His face remained blank.

"Friend?"

He snorted.

Molly licked her lips. "Girlfriend then?"

"Hardly." The notion seemed to amuse him.

"Boyfriend?"

Jim opened the door for her. "Don’t stay out  _too_ late _,_ Molly girl. I want you back in time for the denouement _._ But give us a little space—an interruption could spoil the mood." 

She found herself being hurried out the door. "Um, alright then. Will, uh, will you be working on the case today?"

"I’m always working, Molly. One of the curses of having a brain like mine. It ticks away like clockwork even when you’re sleeping, always adding things up and gnawing at new problems. Makes for interesting dreams, let me tell you." He exhaled through his mouth. "I’ll see you tonight. Lateish."

Before she could nod in reply the door was slammed in her face.

She arrived at work right on time, making quick progress through the halls. She met Meena outside the lab.

"Oh, good morning." Meena glanced up from a clipboard. "You’re looking well today."

"Am I? Thank you." A smile crossed Molly’s lips, uncoerced. "How are you?"

The other woman sighed. "Busy, as always. One of the kids’ got the flu at home and I’ve got a whole batch of tests to run this morning. And that bugger from IT—Jim—quit without any notice, and his manager’s blaming me since we had a row on Friday. Good riddance, I say, but now they’re shorthanded." She took a deep breath and smiled. "Enough about me. How was your weekend?"

Molly fumbled sheepishly with the straps on her bag. "Well," she didn’t meet Meena’s eyes, "I found a flat."

"Fantastic. See, I told you you would—where is it?"

"Baker Street. It’s really nice. It’s a flatshare—I’d never be able to afford a place like that on my own."

"Oh, you’re staying with someone?"

Molly decided to change the subject. "Want to go out for a drink later?" she asked. "To a pub or something. I still owe you coffee, so if we go out tonight we can call it even."

"I’d love that," Meena nodded. "My husband can look after the kids this evening. It’ll be nice to unwind for a bit."

"Good. I’ll meet you after work?"

"Yes."

* * *

He was missing something. Jim spread out the all the files Donovan had sent him on a bulletin board, shuffling them as if that would make them add up better. They made sense until he followed the trail back to the source. Why?  _Why?_ Nothing he could dig up shed any light on the motive. There were no hints, no telltale signs to be found in any of his data. But coincidence was too much to swallow, so somehow the dots  _must_ connect.

A peculiar squeak sounded near his feet. His mouth set in a grimace when he realised it was a meow. The cat was back, rubbing itself all over him as he tried to pull away. With a firm grip he yanked it from the ground and chucked it onto the couch, shaking off the fur it left behind.

The cat met his gaze, unperturbed, jumping from the couch and returning to his legs. Scrambling to the fridge, Jim pushed everything aside until he found a tin of tuna. He scraped it into a dish and set it on the floor, relieved when the cat left him to wolf down the fish.

Somehow he would have to convince Molly the cat must go. But there were more pressing concerns to deal with just then.

He reviewed the bulletin board again.  _It’ll become clear tonight._ Reaching for the hi-fi, he inserted a CD and cranked the volume to full.

Toby’s head shot up, bits of tuna sticking to his mouth, his ears swivelling around to find the source of the violin strains reverberating through the small flat.

_Sonata number one in G Minor_ , Jim thought as he shut his eyes and reclined in one of the chairs.  _Johann Sebastian._ His fingers swayed in time to the music.

"Jimmy." The door swung open, Mrs. Hudson peeking her head around the corner. "What will the neighbours think?"

He let his eyes close again. "Someone has to raise the level of culture in the neighbourhood."

"But must you play it so loud, dear?"

"It helps me THINK."

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "But we’re always getting complaints."

"No one complains about that Yorkshire Terrier of Mrs. Henderson’s next door," Jim snorted. "Barks all night. And that kid on the other side of us thinks he’s living at a rock concert. Why don’t you go bother them?"

"I do hope Molly will civilize you a bit," tutted Mrs. Hudson. "She’s a lovely girl. You need someone like her to keep you in line."

His eyes snapped open. "No one ‘keeps me in line’, Mrs. Hudson," he growled. "Not her, and certainly not you."

"Oh, don’t get cross," the landlady shook her head. "You worry me sometimes."

"Leave me." He pressed his head against the chair. "I need to plan."

"Plan what?"

"Nothing to do with you. I want you gone for the next ten hours. Go see Mr. Chatterjee again!"

She sniffed. "I don’t know what you—"

"I’m sure you’ll make a nice distraction from that wife he has in Doncaster," Jim continued, folding his hands.

"Oh—!" Balling her hands into fists, Mrs. Hudson marched out the flat, shooting Jim an angry glare before slamming the door behind her. And then there was blessed peace again, highlighted by the beautiful violin notes filling the silence.

* * *

It was a slow day at the morgue. Or maybe it only seemed slow, Molly wondered. Cutting open cadavers seemed strangely mundane. She was grateful when the shift came to a close and she could peel off the gloves, washing her hands at one of the little basins and hanging up her lab coat. After switching off all the lights, she met Meena at the front entrance and they hailed a cab.

"A bit nippy tonight," said Meena as they climbed in.

Molly nodded. For some reason she felt a brief chill in her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. She shook it off.

They reached the pub and soon found a pair of seats near the corner, away from the bustle around them. It was bright and noisy inside, glasses clinking and men shouting at some football match on the telly. The atmosphere was thick but pleasant, a trace of cigarette smoke in the air. Molly’s seat creaked as she sat down.

"Two pints," Meena ordered at the bar.

"Your husband didn’t mind babysitting, did he?" Molly asked when Meena returned with the drinks.

"Nah, he knows I need a night out."

The beer warmed Molly inside as she drank. "It’s funny," she said, swallowing another sip. "You’re only a couple of years older than me and yet here you are, married with two children, while I haven’t even had a date in months and I already took my first step towards becoming a mad old cat lady."

"You just haven’t met the right person yet," Meena assured her. "I thought I’d never find anyone and now look at me."

"I suppose so," shrugged Molly.

A cheer rose amongst the patrons clustered around the TV.

"So, tell me about this flatmate of yours," said Meena. "What’s she like?"

Molly was sure she could see herself turning red in the reflection on her glass. "It’s, er, it’s not a she," she mumbled.

Meena raised an eyebrow. "A man then? Ooh, now that’s interesting."

"I-I think he might be gay," Molly stumbled over her words as she hurried to get them out. "But, um, he’s nice. It’s working out quite—quite well."

"I’m glad to hear it. Where’d you meet him? Is he an old friend?"

"No, no—" Biting her tongue, Molly wondered how much to say. "I met him at work, actually."

"Oh, anyone I know?"

"Maybe." Molly took another sip.

Putting down her glass, Meena studied her. "You don’t want to tell me who it is."

"You’ll make a face if I do."

"Why?"

"Because it’s... it’s Jim."

The other woman blinked. "Jim—from IT? That Jim?"

Molly nodded.

One of the patrons booed at the TV.

"Why in God’s name would you move in with Jim Moriarty of all people?" Meena breathed out at last. "You didn’t even know him until I introduced you last Friday."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Molly tried to laugh. "Actually, yes, it was a good idea. He’s really very nice when you get to know him—a bit odd, but aren’t we all?"

"There’s odd and there’s insane. I’ve talked to Jim, I know which category he falls into."

Someone spilled a glass at one of the other tables and there was a scraping of chairs and scuffling of feet as they worked to clean it up.

Molly chewed her lip. "I know you’re cross because he kept getting into your computer, but he had reasons for that. He was working on a case."

"A case?"

She managed an awkward smile. "Yeah, um, he’s a detective—consulting detective for the police, as a matter of fact. We’re working on a big case right now. Well, he is, and I help. Sort of. I don’t think I’ve actually done much yet," she admitted.

Meena’s brow was furrowed. "I hope you know what you’re doing."

"You were the one who said I needed to come out of my shell." She stifled a nervous giggle. "I did something impulsive and it worked. I made a new friend. God, it really was silly of me to just move in with him like that, but I’m glad I did. I haven’t been this happy in months."

* * *

It was time. The phone beeped as Jim dialled the number. It rang for a moment before he heard the line crackle as the other person picked up. "Dr. Ella Thompson’s office, hello?"

He waited a moment, preparing himself, then: "H-Hello?"

"Yes?" The voice was Thompson’s receptionist.

"Hello, is someone there?" Jim’s lip trembled. "God, you need to help me!"

A pause. "It’s okay, calm down. What’s wrong?"

He strangled a sob. "I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you. I’m sorry. B-But she said—Dr. Thompson said I could call her if I needed her. Please help me!"

"Where are you? What’s wrong?"

"I think I’m going to do it tonight," he choked. "I can’t take this anymore! I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t have called. I thought maybe—maybe she could help. I’m sorry."

"Are you at home?"

He hung up.

Laughing to himself, Jim leaned back, more pleased with himself than he would admit. The trap had been set. Now it was time to sit back and wait for the mice to come scurrying to the cheese. He ruffled his hair to give it an unkempt look, and a dab of soap in each eye soon had them red and watery. Checking his watch and deciding he still had a few minutes before his guest arrived, he stood before the bulletin board again.

Donovan had provided him with all the information she could dig up on Ella Thompson—though only after considerable wheedling from Jim, and even then she’d complained the entire time that he wasn’t sharing enough of his findings with her—and the pages had all been pinned to the board. But they left Jim with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something wasn’t right. The spark was missing, that hint of a flame that could be fanned into a killing spree. Everything he read seemed to confirm the notion that Ella Thompson was just an ordinary, straitlaced, run of the mill psychologist instead of a psycho. And yet, the evidence couldn’t be ignored.

He looked at the four names. Four victims, none of them connected except for two things—identical suicides, and a shared therapist. But where were the warning signs that should have been there?

_Some people bury their demons well_ , he reminded himself. He almost envied Ella.

The clock ticked on. Jim seated himself and folded his hands. Silence hung over the flat like a thick fog. He even found himself missing Toby’s constant vocalizations, but the cat had been shut in Molly’s room so it wouldn’t get in the way. His fingers drummed on the chair. "This is rude," he muttered, checking his watch. "I’m killing myself here and she’s late."

Molly would have laughed at that if she was there.

A faint scratching upstairs told him the cat was getting restless. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, squirming in the seat.

At last there was a buzz from the doorbell. Rubbing his eyes to stimulate the tears, he plodded down the stairs, resisting the urge to race for the door.  _Got to stay in character_ . With a shaking hand and a sniff he reached for the doorknob. "Dr. Thompson," he sobbed, "please h—" It took all his effort to keep his facade from cracking when the door swung open and he faced the visitor.

"Sorry." Rachel offered a weak smile. "I couldn’t get hold of Ella, so I came instead."

_No, no, no, no._ He’d set it all up so carefully. "But—she said—"

"It’s okay." The receptionist stepped past the threshold, hanging her coat on the rack. "I can help you. I trained to be a psychologist for several years."

Jim forced down his initial surprise and tried to blink out a few tears. "No, no, I want Dr. Thompson! You—you’re not a real therapist!"

"No, I’m not," she admitted. "I didn’t get my degree. But I know more than Ella ever will."

A thousand dots suddenly merged together in Jim’s mind, not at all what he’d been expecting. "C-Come in then." He struggled to keep the sparkle from his eyes.

She followed him up the stairs. "You haven’t done anything yet, have you? Taken any pills? You sounded desperate on the phone, so I got your address from the form and came over."

"N-Not yet," he shook his head, slipping shakily into a chair. "God," his face sank into his hands, "I can’t do this! Why am I trying? Why did I think I could fight this?"

"Then don’t fight it." Her voice was soft and sweet as honey as she took his hand, stroking it with her index finger. "It’s okay. You don’t have to fight any longer. Stop fearing death." She reached into her pocket, drawing out a small glass vial and setting it firmly on the table. A pill rested inside. "Embrace it. It’s the only release you’ll ever get."

The pill looked so innocuous. Jim swallowed, a tear trickling down his cheek as he hesitantly touched the bottle. Straining to keep the smile from his lips, he raised it to the light, the pill rattling against the glass as he shook it. "W-What’s this?"

"An escape." Her eyes gleamed. "Take it."

His hand quivered and he brought the vial back down sharply against the table. "I—I can’t! Why? Why are you doing this? You said you would help!"

She patted his hand again. "I am helping, Jim. You can’t go on living like this. It’s the only way."

"Did you do this to Jeff Hope too?" he snarled, wiping away the tears.

Her voice turned ice cold. "Jeff who?"

At last the smile broke through, and Jim almost laughed. "Don’t play games with me. You’ll only lose," he said, the despair gone from his voice. "I know what you’ve been doing. Quite the amateur shrink, aren’t you? Visiting all those people who call your office hoping to get help from Dr. Thompson, getting them to kill themselves. Why? Because you couldn’t be a real psychologist? Is that what this is about?"

"Who are you?" Rachel’s lips formed a tight line as she stared at him.

"I’m the man who stopped you." A crooked grin crossed his face. "No wonder you didn’t get your degree—you couldn’t even tell I was faking. Then again, Dr. Thompson couldn’t read me either, so I suppose I am rather good."

Suddenly her posture relaxed and she leaned back, steepling her hands. "Oh, but I did read you."

He paused. Something was wrong. "A nice bluff, my dear, but you’re not that good. If you were you wouldn’t be here."

Rachel smiled. "It’s a clever little trap, I’ll admit. But you made one terrible little mistake."

"Explain." Why was he sweating?

"You let me see your hands."

Jim blinked, looking down at his palms. "I don’t understand."

With gentle fingers Rachel pulled up his sleeve. "The best disguises are the ones that really aren’t disguises at all, don’t you think? So much easier to maintain. But they have one fatal flaw—you can’t hide anything once someone’s seen through them."

Jim’s eyes flicked from one wrist to another, the sight of each cut bringing forth a tingling sensation in his skin—the memory of a knife on flesh. The newest was two days old now, already beginning to heal. He’d almost forgotten them for those two days. But as Rachel traced her hand over the crusty scabs, he felt a familiar itch and his gaze drifted automatically to the drawer where the knife was hidden.

"Deep down you agree with me," Rachel whispered in his ear. "There is only one escape. And before the night is over, Mr. Moriarty, you’re going to take it."

* * *

The dregs in her glass swilled around as Molly held it up. She downed them, clinking the glass back down and trying to shake away the drowsiness that was coming over her. She remembered when she could hold her liquor better. Glancing at Meena, she wondered if the time had come to make a strategic exit before she got too drunk to go home alone.

Their conversation had drifted to other subjects after the big reveal of her flatmate’s identity, but a distance had settled between them. It stung just a little to know her friend thought she was making a mistake, even if she hadn’t said it in so many words. Part of Molly wondered if Meena was right. She still knew so little about Jim...

_And yet I trust him_ . It was a strange feeling. Closed off as she’d always been, she hadn’t trusted many people. She had walls for everyone, even her mother.  _Especially_ her mother. But Jim was different. 

She checked her watch. It wasn’t as late as she’d planned to stay out, but she’d be damned if she was going to spend another hour drinking when she could be curled up in bed. "Meena," she yawned. "I should get back to the flat. Jim probably forgot to give Toby his supper and I’ve got the start of a killer headache."

The other woman nodded. "Alright, I need to get home too before the kids drive my husband batty. Thanks for the evening."

"It was my pleasure." Taking out her phone, she decided it would be prudent to let Jim know she was on her way home. She still wasn’t sure exactly what he was up to, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want to be interrupted. And if it was some kind of date, arriving abruptly could be very awkward for all concerned. "Come on, Jim, answer," she murmured as it rang. No one picked up.  _Maybe he can’t come to the phone right now, or he turned it off._ A few possible scenarios flashed through her head, some of them making her squirm uncomfortably. 

The call remained unanswered.

Well, whatever Jim was doing, he’d just have to put up with her coming home early. Molly shoved the phone back in her pocket and stumbled out the pub, waving for a taxi. A lightheadedness had swept over her.

As a taxi approached, she tried to ignore the sudden feeling of icy fingers running down her back. Nothing was wrong, she told herself. Why on earth would it be? Perhaps Jim simply hadn’t heard the phone.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked as she climbed in.

"Baker Street," she said with more urgency than she intended.


	6. Chapter 5

Jim tugged his sleeves back down. "Nice try, really, very good. But you won’t get to me that easily. No one does."

The corners of Rachel’s mouth twitched. "I got to the others."

"They’re not me."

"No," she agreed, "you’re a little different. But I can see that same emptiness in your eyes. You want this just as much as they did. You want to be set free."

He folded his arms. "Free from what?"

"Life."

Shaking his head, Jim chuckled to himself. "If I wanted to die, I wouldn’t need your help."

Rachel edged closer, sliding the vial across the table. "You live in a cage of your own making. You  _do_ want to die, but everything society’s ever told you says you shouldn’t. Well, I’m here to tell you they’re wrong. Keeping people like you alive is cruel."

"Cruel for us or for the world?" Jim snickered. "I know more than few people who’d pick the latter."

"You’re searching for release. I can give it to you."

"I don’t want it. I just want to see you behind bars—which, by the way, is where you’ll end up when I call the police."

She shook her head. "That’s not going to happen. Because you’ll be dead—just one more suicide."

"The only way you’re getting that pill down my throat is by shoving it there, and that would rather defeat the point of a suicide." Jim rubbed his chin. "Though, I do give you a gold star for effort. No one’s ever tried to talk me to death before. Well, okay, Anderson’s nearly succeeded a few times, but I think we all want to put a gun to our heads after listening to him blather."

"Don’t pretend you’ve never thought about killing yourself." Rachel leaned closer, and Jim pulled back involuntarily. "I can see it in your eyes."

"See whatever makes you happy, darling," he shrugged with a little too much nonchalance. "You’re still wrong."

"Am I?" Rising, she began to circle the room. "So you just cut your wrists for fun, do you?"

Jim swallowed. "I get bored."

"It feels good, doesn’t it? Hurting yourself?"

"Actually it’s fucking painful," he sniggered. "But I suppose that’s the idea."

She was behind him now, her hands resting on the back of the chair. Her breath on his neck made him straighten sharply. "Why do you do it?"

"I do lots of things. They don’t all make sense."

"How long has it been going on?"

Why was he answering her? "Since I was thirteen. Didn’t kill myself then, by the way. Not gonna kill myself now."

"Why do you do it?" she repeated.

He clenched his teeth. "I’m calling the police."

Sweeping around him, she returned to her chair, clasping her hands. "Sorry, am I... getting to you?"

"You’re getting boring. I solved the mystery—deranged psychology dropout wants to euthanise her patients. Kid’s stuff. Time to move on"

She laughed. "Oh, you think you’re so clever, don’t you? But all you can see is the obvious."

His eyebrow twitched. "Then enlighten me."

"Didn’t you ever wonder where I got the poison?" Her laugh tinkled throughout the room. "You’ll like it, I promise."

"Tell me."

She tsked. "That seems a bit unfair—you’ve hardly been forthcoming yourself." Crossing her legs, she smiled. "You answer my questions, I’ll answer yours."

" _Quid pro quo?_ Someone’s seen Silence of the Lambs a few too many times." Jim leaned back. "Alright. Fire away."

"Why do you do it?" she asked again, gazing at his wrists.

Jim took a deep breath. "Okay, you were right," he admitted. "It feels good. Fucking painful, but good." Then he leaned forward. "Where’d you get the poison?"

"A friend. Well, ‘friend’ isn’t really the word..." Her eyes gleamed. "Someone who enjoys a little murder and mayhem—almost like you. Only better."

He bit his tongue. "Who?"

"Uh-uh-uh," Rachel shook her finger. "My turn. You talk about boredom. What’s it like for you, being bored?"

"A lot like right now." Casually stretching his arms over the sides of the couch, Jim looked up and sighed. "Why do I never get the fun criminals?"

"But how does it make you feel?"

He rolled his eyes. "It makes me feel  _bored_ ! What do you think? I feel like a train stuck at the station, the wheels churning but going nowhere. My mind is ravenous monster, my dear; it devours everything in its path and when there’s nothing left it tears at itself just for  _something_ to do."

"So the cutting is a distraction?"

He narrowed his eyes. "That’s two questions."

"Then ask yours."

"This ‘friend’—who are they?"

"Sorry, we don’t use names. They’re too smart for that. All I can tell you is they’re powerful... Very, very powerful." Rachel tapped her fingers together. "If you killed yourself right now, who would care?"

He blinked. "W-What?"

"Who would care?"

Jim found himself rubbing his neck, trying to fight the tingling of old cuts. His hand shook. "No one I suppose. Oh, Mrs. Hudson might shed a tear—always was far too emotional, that one—and Molly..." He shut his eyes. "No one. No one would care. Doesn’t matter though. You’re gonna have to try harder than that." Breathing in and out, he continued. "How did you meet this friend of yours?"

"I know people who know people. There’s this figure in the shadows... someone you go to when you have a little ‘problem’ that needs solving."

Intrigue stirred in Jim’s chest.

"Would _you_ care if you died?" asked Rachel.

"No. I’d be  _dead_ . That seems fairly obvious." 

"But if you could care, would you?"

He breathed out, exasperated. "No, I wouldn’t care. Moving right along, what does this person get in exchange for their services?"

"Depends. Money, connections, goods—sometimes the trouble they stir is its own reward. I think you can appreciate that." She smiled. "Why wouldn’t you care?"

"Because I don’t care about me. Caring gets in the way."

"Spoken like a true sociopath."

He grinned. "Takes one to know one."

"I’m not like you. I do care. That’s why I do this."

"Talking people into to committing suicide is a novel way of showing compassion," drawled Jim.

She ignored the remark. "Not caring is too easy. It’s hiding. What would happen if you allowed yourself to feel? Would it really be so bad?"

Forcing his hands to remain steady, he shook his head. "I don’t have time for feelings. Look what they do—they bog you down, turn you inside out, impair your ability to reason. Why would I want that?"

"Because fighting them hurts just as much as they do, doesn’t it?"

"Shut  _up_ ." He sprang from his chair, circling the room. "I’m not playing your games." The crack in his voice wasn’t planned this time.

"Then call the police."

Jim looked to his phone on the table. It was on silent, but he could see he had a missed call from Molly. Almost reaching to pick it up, he stopped himself.

"You won’t do it, will you? Not yet. Because that means the distraction’s over and you go back to your boring life," Rachel whispered. "Admit it. Without distractions you’re nothing. Can you really live your life that way? Constantly looking for things to keep your mind busy? What happens when you run out?"

"I don’t know, I’ll get back to you and maybe then we can talk suicide. But not today," he snarled with an intensity that surprised him.

"Temper, temper." She rose and approached him, her voice softening. "I just want to help."

"You want me to kill myself so I won’t turn you in to the police. There’s a difference."

Her eyes bored into him, her lips deceptively smiling. "And you want to kill yourself to end the boredom. Different goals, same end result."

"I told you, I  _don’t_ want to kill myself!"

That drew a snicker from her. "Are you saying you’ve never thought about it? Never tried?"

 

Jim licked his lips, turning his back on her.

"I rest my case."

A twitch in his fingers led to balled fists, and suddenly he spun on his heel to face her. "What do you know about feelings?" His words cut through the air, rough and loud. He brought his face mere inches away from hers. "What do you KNOW? About pain, about death? You think you can help people, but you know  _nothing_ . You’ve never had to do this!" Grabbing the knife from the drawer, he dragged it over his arm. His eyes watered as the pain seared through him, and yet it brought a feeling of euphoric relief. It was a deeper cut than he’d intended, and the blood pooled between his fingers as he tried to stem the flow. "So fuck you!"

Momentarily startled, Rachel recovered herself. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yes," Jim admitted after a pause.  _God, it hurts._

"Then take the pill. If hurting yourself takes away the emptiness for awhile, think what death will do."

"It’ll," he gasped, forcing back the pain, "just make me _dead_ ."

"Isn’t that an improvement?"

He cried out as another stab of pain ran through his arm. "No. No, no, no!" Sinking into his chair, he tried to calm his breathing. "Shut up! I told you to shut up! I’m in CONTROL!"

She knelt beside him. "Then why are you crying?"

Touching his cheeks, his fingers came away damp. Jim swallowed. "I’m FINE!"

* * *

Paying the fare, Molly staggered out the cab and up the steps to the door of 221B. The cold ran through her bones as she stood there, fumbling in her bag for the key Mrs. Hudson had given her. Metal scratched against metal when she tried to insert it into the lock. "Ugh." Shaking her head, she sought focus. The key entered with a click and she turned it. She opened the door.

* * *

There was a pounding in his ears. Jim blinked, his breathing shallow. He was fine, he was  _fine_ . Wiping his eyes, his face contorted into a snarl when he faced Rachel. "Get out!"

"Oh, Mr. Moriarty, what would the police think? You had me right in your grasp and you let me slip away? Would they ever trust you on any of their cases again?" Rachel smirked.

He shut his eyes. The blackness was soothing. His arm still throbbed, but he could feel the bleeding had slowed.

"Think how good it would feel. To swallow that pill and know it would all finally be over."

"Yes, I’m sure it feels  _lovely_ to choke on your own vomit. Poison’s the coward’s choice," he growled. "If you’re going to kill yourself, face it head on."

He felt something cold and hard being pressed against his hands. "Then use this. Or are you a coward?"

It was the knife. Flecks of blood still adhered to the steel surface. He stared at it, his mouth trembling.

"Imagine plunging this into your heart. Finally releasing yourself from your cage." A fervour had entered her voice. It was infectious.

Jim raised the knife, studying it. The edge glistened. Somehow the sight of it increased the throbbing in his arm.

"Do it. It’s what you want. Let your walls down for once, let emotion take over. Let the pain fill your heart and then cut it out."

His eyes narrowed as he brought the knife closer. He could see a fuzzy reflection of himself on its steel surface, staring back at him like a feral animal. Was that what he was? The tip glinted in the light. It would be so easy to shove it through his chest.

"You’ll never need distractions again. You’ll finally be content."

"I’ll. Be. Dead." His words came out as stilted gasps.

"Exactly. It’s what you  _want_ ."

Was it really? She’d been right about one thing—he’d tried before. But... But things were different now.  _How?_ a voice asked. He had a case now... which would be over the moment he turned Rachel in. 

_I have a flatmate._

_Boring,_ the voice sneered.

What did he have?

As he blinked, he felt something moist trailing down his cheek.  _I have myself._

The one thing he didn’t want.

He held the knife over his heart. All his life, he’d looked for the danger, the excitement—he’d always taken the reckless choice. Anything for that rush of adrenaline. This would top it all, wouldn’t it? He chuckled to himself, tasting salt as the tear trickled into his mouth. He wondered if it would hurt.

_I hope it does._

His knuckles whitened as he clenched the handle, drawing his hand back and poising it for the thrust. A smile twisted over his features and he felt his heart rate quicken. She was right—killing himself felt good. His grip tightened.

"Do it," Rachel urged him.

Taking a deep breath, Jim tried to pull down the barriers he’d erected so long ago.  _Let the pain take over_ , he told himself. His chest began to ache as if the knife was already in it. Trembling, he scrunched his face into a tearful grimace and closed his eyes.

There was the sound of a door opening. "Hi— Oh my god, Jim!"

With a clatter the knife dropped to the floor, Jim’s hand still stretched out stiffly. He opened his eyes. Blurred by tears, it took him a moment to focus his vision.

Molly had taken a step back, her eyes wide and her breath coming in short gasps. She was leaning against the doorway, staring from Jim to Rachel.

"Hello, Molly." The words were so soft even he had trouble hearing them. Then he pressed his head against his knees and clutched desperately at the fabric of his clothes, his body shaking.

* * *

The stairs had been tricky in her groggy state. Almost tripping twice one the way up, Molly was grateful when she reached the door. Steadying herself against it and trying to fight back the drowsiness, she breathed and pushed it open. It occurred to her at that moment that it might have been better to knock, but it was too late so she marched on in. A cheery greeting died on her lips when her eyes fell upon the scene inside.

There was a metallic clang as a knife slipped from Jim’s hand. It had been poised above his chest, as if he intended to use it on himself. Molly staggered backwards. Then she noticed the woman hovering beside Jim, her eyes blazing with anger at Molly’s arrival.

Jim’s voice made her shiver as he greeted her. The melody had been sucked out of it, leaving it bland and quiet. Staring, she watched him rock with silent sobs. Instinct told her she should do something; experience offered no suggestions. She remained rooted in place.

The other woman rose slowly, taking something small from the table and slipping it into her pocket. "Sorry, I’ll just be leaving now."

"No." It was a croak more than a word. Jim glanced up, his eyes shining moistly. "Stop her."

Snapping out of her stupor, Molly slammed the door shut, pressing herself against it to bar the woman’s way. "What," she began firmly, "is going on?"

Before Molly knew what was happening the woman sprang to the floor, grabbing the knife and thrusting it beneath Jim’s neck, her other arm holding him in place. "Let me go," she said, a glint in her eyes like light catching an ice crystal. "Or I’ll kill him." Jim made no attempt to protest.

The door rattled as Molly found herself shaking against it. "I..."

"Open the door!"

Hastily she scrambled to obey.

And then the shot rang out. It sounded like thunder at first, but the shattering of the window told a different story. Molly felt like the room was spinning as she saw the woman crumple to the ground, still clutching the knife, while Jim fell out her arms and stumbled against the table. He tried to steady himself, but she had to catch him as he lost his balance. His hands felt sweaty as she helped him up. She breathed in sharply when her eyes caught splotches of red on his sleeve and hands.

"H-Help me." The woman was convulsing on the floor. Molly bit her lip and set Jim in a chair, hurrying to her side.

"It’s okay, I’m a doctor." A lie, but it seemed to calm the woman. Leaning closer, Molly saw the widening circle of blood where the bullet had impacted her chest. She pressed her hands over the wound, but already the light was fading from the woman’s eyes.

She coughed blood as she tried to sit up, staring at Jim. "Y-You... were right," she gasped. "F-Fucking painful."

Molly felt suddenly helpless. "You have to keep still. I’m going to call an ambulance," she promised.

"I l-lied, you know." A spasm wracked her body as she tried to chuckle. "I-I heard his name once."

Jim’s head shot up. Tears still glistened in his eyes, but now they were alight with something else.

Crying as pain continued to course through her, the woman opened her lips. "H-Holmes." She groaned and fell back limply.

Slumping against the table, Molly tried to process the thoughts whirling through her head. She had no idea what had just happened. And now she was sitting beside a dead woman and her roommate was in broken state nearby. "God," she breathed. "I go out for one drink and this is what I come home to."

There was a faint cough from Jim, almost a chuckle.

"Where’s Toby?" She glanced around.

"Upstairs." Some of the colour had returned to Jim’s cheeks, but his voice remained muted.

"Thank god he’s okay." She wiped her brow. "What happened, Jim? Who is—was—she?"

Jim’s eyes were locked on the knife in the dead woman’s hand. He didn’t answer.

"Jim."

Snapping his head back up, he breathed deeply. "A murderer."

"Who did she kill?"

"No one." He closed his eyes. "That’s the cleverest kind of murderer."

A silence settled over them that roared in Molly’s ears. She watched the second hand on the clock make its slow circuit, the ticking suddenly deafening. At last she spoke again. "When I came in... What were you doing?"

Jim’s gaze dropped to the floor. "Buying time till you got home." Looking up again a smile tried to break through his features. "I-I told you I wanted you here for the climax."

"You’re lying." She was surprised by her own assertiveness, but she didn’t try to bite back the words like she normally did. "Tell me the truth."

He shrugged, a veil falling over his face. Blandly he answered, "She tried to make me kill myself."

"How?"

"She talked to me." He leaned back. "That’s what she did to all of them. Suicides." A hollow laugh. "They were suicides after all."

_He said he’d be working on the case today_ , she realised. This was the woman behind the serial suicides. It should have been obvious, really. The unopened vial had rolled from her pocket, lying a short distance from the body. 

"Are you okay?" Molly asked.

Jim said nothing, resting his forehead against his fist. She could see a red trickle on his arm.

"You’re bleeding."

"I know." A slight waver in his voice. "It’s okay. It’s good. It’s all good, Molly."

She swallowed. "Let me help."

" _No_ ." Rising sharply, Jim crossed the room. "Call Donovan about the body. Tell her I’ll make a statement in the morning." The bedroom door slammed behind him as he left.

* * *

It took some convincing to keep Donovan from barging into Jim’s room to question him when she arrived. Molly told her everything she knew, which wasn’t as much as she would have liked, but the policewoman remained unsatisfied. Only after a solemn oath to bring Jim round to the station in the morning could she persuade Donovan to let the matter rest. Police flocked through the flat for some time, taking pictures and collecting evidence, until at last the body was carted away and they all left one by one, leaving Molly to sink gratefully into a chair and rub her temples as a headache threatened to overtake her.

Her heart lifted when she entered her bedroom and was nearly bowled over by a frantic Toby, meowing and twining himself around her legs with a fervour born of long hours in isolation. Lifting him into her arms and burying her face in his thick fur, Molly tumbled into bed and wriggled her way under the covers. Toby remained beside her, warm and comforting. Sleep came moments later.

When her alarm clock went off, Molly awoke to a head that felt as though an axe had gone through it and a body that ached with residual fear and exhaustion. She wished she could think the events of the previous night had been nothing more than a bad dream, but her leaden heart told her otherwise.

The first thing she did after getting dressed was prepare a cup of tea. Camomile, always her father’s favourite when he was anxious. It steamed as she poured in the hot water, and she was careful not to spill any in on her hand as she held the china cup. Setting it with a clink in its saucer, she padded slowly down the passage to Jim’s room. Her hand hesitated beside the door, then rapped gently on the wood.

For a time there was no answer. Her lips pressed together and she could hear the cup rattle as her hand quivered. Finally there were sounds of movement. With a creak the door pulled open.

Leaning halfway out, his hair bedraggled, his shirt wrinkled and loose, and his eyes bloodshot, Jim didn’t make a pretty picture. But his teeth showed in a half-formed smile, even if his eyes didn’t shine, and he took a step forward. "Molly."

"I, um, I brought you tea." She held out the cup.

"Thanks." He made no move to take it.

Molly brushed a strand of hair out her face with her free hand. "I’m going to take today off. From work."

"Oh." With stiff hands Jim took the tea, lifting the cup to his lips. He didn’t even pause to blow on it, swallowing the hot liquid in quick gulps without flinching.

"Um, we’ll go see Detective Inspector Donovan later, yeah?"

"Yeah." He nodded.

Shifting awkwardly, Molly leaned closer. "If... If you want to talk about last night..."

"No."

"Okay." She didn’t want to leave it there, but what else could she do? "What... What did that woman mean? About that name?"

A strange look came over Jim. He set the cup back in its saucer, frowning. "Someone in the shadows..."

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing." There was just a flicker of light in his eyes, a spark in the darkness.

"Do you have any idea who killed her?" Molly asked.

"Could be anyone..." He shrugged. "Woman like that would’ve made enemies." The spark burned brighter.

Resting her back against the wall and folding her arms, Molly stared at the ground. "Why did she do it? Make those people kill themselves?"

He paused. "She was trying to help."

"She must have been insane."

Jim’s head tilted up, his eyes fixed vacantly on the ceiling. "We all are."

A moment of silence. "You were going to kill yourself when I walked in." Holding him in her gaze, Molly tried to pierce the mask he now wore.

He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, staring upwards for a long moment before facing her. "I made a mistake."

"Yeah?"

The corners of his mouth pulled up just a little, and his eyes softened. "I should have told you to stay."

She found a hint of a smile playing over her own face. "I’m sure you just wanted to keep me out of trouble."

"I don’t like... having people around me," he said softly. "I don’t like people, to be perfectly honest." There was a tiredness in his voice she realised had always been there but she’d never noticed before.

"Then why’d you let me move in?" she tried to lighten the mood.

"We all do silly things." His laugh was forced, but she smiled anyway.

"Come on," she stirred from the wall, "let’s have some breakfast and go meet Donovan."

Their feet tapped lightly on the wood floor. Jim dragged behind her, his shoulders slumped. "Holmes," she heard him whispering to himself. "Holmes."


	7. Chapter 6

"Evening!" The door clicked behind Molly as she entered the apartment, weighed down by the multitude of shopping bags her small arms strained to carry. Toby was upon her in an instant, getting underfoot until she shooed him aside. "I bought a few things—well, a lot of things. The cupboards were a bit bare. When was the last time you restocked them?" With a groan she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter, pushing one back that threatened to tumble over the edge. "Do you mind turning that down?"

Jim looked up from where he reclined on the sofa, but made no move to adjust the knob on the hi-fi. Strains of Beethoven’s 5th reverberated through the room at a volume that would have deafened the old composer if he’d had any hearing left to lose. "You back already?"

"I’ve been at work  _all day_ ." She put a hand on her hip. "Have you moved from that chair at all since I left?" 

"Of course." He reached for the knob, turning it up to full. "I made myself some tea." His forehead creased. "No, wait, that was yesterday..."

A sigh escaped Molly’s lips. " _Jim_ ," she admonished, "it’s been nearly a week since  _A Study in Shr_ —since you solved the suicide case. You can’t keep moping around the flat all day."

"I’m bored." They both knew there was more to it than that, but Jim had vetoed all discussion of his attempted suicide. He frowned. "What did you say? A study in...?"

" _A Study in Shrinks_ ." Biting her lip, Molly blushed. "That’s, um—that’s what I called it on my blog."

Jim made a face like he’d just swallowed a foul-tasting insect. "You wrote about it on your  _blog_ ?"

"Yes. I, er, didn’t give all the details. I just sort of summed it up."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I don’t know, maybe someone will find it interesting."

"Does anyone even read your blog?" he asked with contempt.

"Golly, I hope not." Molly laughed. "It’s—well, mostly just a place for me to talk about the things that happen to me... It’s for my own benefit, really. Helps to write things down."

Jim leaned back and rubbed his temples. "Get a diary then, for god’s sakes. Why plaster it all over the internet?"

"At least I’m actually doing  _something_ ."

"I don’t HAVE A CASE!" He threw his hands in the air.

Molly flopped beside him on the chair. "Find one."

"What, just like that?" He snorted. "Oh, Molly, if only."

"Okay. Spend your life on the couch then." With a quick jerk Molly turned off the music, talking over Jim as he tried to protest. "I’m going to watch some telly." She hurried to her room, returning with a DVD boxset before Jim could turn the music on again. Popping a disc in the player, she seated herself and grabbed the remote.

Jim sat up, running a hand over his unshaven chin. "What are you doing? What’s this?"

"You have your classical music." Molly pressed play. "I have Glee."

"Glee? What—?"

He didn’t have long to find out. Molly giggled at the horrified widening of his eyes as the show began to play on the flat screen. It wasn’t the sort of show she’d admit to liking to her work colleagues; they looked down on her enough already. But already a warm feeling had settled in her heart just watching the theme. Molly’s fingers ran through her hair as she rested her head against her hand. It was almost like being back at the cottage, sitting with her dad in front of the telly.

Jim’s nose wrinkled and his eyes squinted at the screen. "Is this some sort of horror programme?"

"No, shush, I’m trying to listen."

"Does anyone get murdered?"

"It’s not that kind of show."

He looked disappointed.

There was a thud as Toby bounced onto the couch, crawling over Jim’s legs which produced a series of muttered curses until the cat reached Molly, settling in a little ball on her lap.

"Oh, good god, is there singing in this?"

"Shut up, Jim."

Although his protests continued, Molly noticed Jim gradually lean closer and closer to the television, his remarks becoming less frequent as the episode progressed. With wide, intense eyes he followed the action.

It was during the middle of one of Molly’s favourite songs that she heard her phone beep. Sighing, she slipped it from her pocket and checked her messages. Her eyebrows drew together and she pressed delete.

"What was that?" Jim glanced at her.

"Nothing."

"Text?"

"It was nothing."

He tilted his head. "Your mother again?"

A burning sensation flared in her throat. "Have you been going through my messages?"

"You wound me, Molly. I thought you knew me better by now," said Jim. "It was an easy guess. You keep getting texts and you never look pleased or try to answer them. Must be someone you don’t want to talk to then. Now, who could that be? Ooh, here’s a clue—you talk about your father all the time, but never your mother. She’s not dead—if she was you’d think of her more fondly. Time has a way of clouding the facts with sentiment. But if she’s alive, how come you didn’t go to her when you needed a place to stay? Clearly the two of you have issues. So, someone you don’t like is trying to get in contact with you—mother is our best bet. The question is," he tilted his head the other way, "why don’t you want to talk to her?"

"I  _want_ to watch Glee." Folding her hands tightly on her lap, Molly leaned against the back of the couch

Jim shrugged. "Fine, be that way."

Her teeth ground together. "Oh, and you’re Mr. Open, are you? Always ready to talk about your problems?"

"My problems are on an unimaginably larger scale than yours, darling. So you and your mum had a row once? How my heart bleeds."

Molly pressed her lips in a tight line, holding her head up and trying to focus on the images flickering across the TV. Somehow the distance between them on the couch seemed to widen. "You don’t know anything about it, so shut up."

"Oh, well let’s analyse the matter, shall we? I’m sure it’ll only take me a couple of guesses. Your life isn’t that complex."

"Shut up, just shut up." She swallowed. "Why can’t you— Just once, why can’t you be nice? Why do you always have to say such nasty things?"

"I thought honesty was supposed to be a virtue."

Molly took a deep breath, gritting her teeth. "Just... Just stop it. Stop talking."

Jim frowned but closed his mouth. Silence took over.

* * *

Morning always came too soon. He hid from the recesses of his mind during the day, but at night he revelled in them. Viewing the world through the prism of sleep allowed him to explore the known and the unknown, the possible and the impossible, the good and the bad, in new and interesting ways. No matter how nonsensical the dream, it was always a disappointed when reality faded through. They were like a window into another world; a better world where things didn’t have to make sense and you never had to follow boring rules. Anything could happen.

He liked them for much the same reason he loved stories. They had everything good that real life offered (not much), but all the dull parts had been sucked out, replaced by the wonderful and the fantastical. Rules could be broken on a whim.

There were so many rules in life, weren’t there? Like saying the right thing at the right time and not saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Turning over in bed, wishing the sun would stop glaring through the window, Jim thought of Molly. He didn’t need his powers of observation to know she was upset with him.

It wasn’t as though he’d  _meant_ to be insensitive. Honestly, she took offensive far too easily. And he was right—her little family problems were insignificant; probably the result of a miscommunication or something equally trivial. Ridiculous. His problem was  _the_ problem—the final problem. The problem of life itself.

He sat up, dragging his hands down his face. It was Saturday. A week had now passed since the careful organization of his life had changed inexplicably and unalterably.

Alone had always been a constant. Alone was good. Alone was safe.

And yet alone almost killed him. If Molly hadn’t entered...

_No, not now_ . He locked away those thoughts. Peeling back the covers, his feet dropped onto the floor and he pulled on a dressing gown. Tying it, Jim flung open the door and padded down the hall. The smell of burnt toast reached his nostrils, and he found Molly at the kitchen table, already dressed, scraping off a blackened layer from the toast she was buttering.

"Morning."

"Oh. Hi." She didn’t look up.

Jim sat down. "I was going to make breakfast..."

"I’m fine, thanks." She popped the toast into her mouth and crunched through it slowly.

Toby hovered beneath the table, pawing Jim’s feet and looking up at him expectantly. Scrunching his face into his best glare, Jim stared down at the animal. A piteous meow escaped it’s lips. It put a soft paw on his knee. "Shoo," Jim hissed.

"Toby," Molly called, shaking a dish of food. "Here, kitty." In a flash the cat had joined her, rushing to the dish as soon as she set it down. "Toby only listens when you talk nicely to him."

It took effort not to roll his eyes. "He’s a cat. He doesn’t understand nice."

"Well he certainly knows when people  _aren’t_ nice."

Ignoring her, Jim set about making himself some breakfast. His nose wrinkled at the burnt crumbs adhering to the toaster.  _She’d burn ice cream if she tried to make it._ Eventually he’d have to lay ground rules about who was allowed to do the cooking and who wasn’t, but he sensed it wasn’t a good time just then.

"Any plans for today?" Molly’s voice was stiffer than the corpses she cut open.

"Oh, lots." He cracked an egg and the yolk plopped in the frying pan. "I was gonna pop down to the Tower of London and steal the crown jewels—my wardrobe’s been a bit dull of late. Then maybe I’ll rob the Bank of England. You said I needed to do  _something_ with my life."

Her eyes narrowed. "Stop being silly."

"What about you, Hooper?" Straddling a chair while he waited for the eggs to fry, he crossed his arms over the backing and studied her. "What are you doing today?"

She squared her shoulders. "I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll go out with some mates or something."

"What mates? The only friend you have is Meena."

"I do know other people at work," she protested.

"But none of them like you."

"Still better company than you."

Accepting the jab with dignified silence, Jim flipped the eggs onto a plate and waved them near Molly ostentatiously, letting her inhale the tasty aroma.  _I hope she enjoys her burnt toast_ .

As they were finishing their meal, a knock sounded on the door. "Jim, Molly." It was Mrs. Hudson’s tittering voice.

"Come in," Molly called.

The grey-haired woman entered, throwing a glance back through the open door. "Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, dears," she said. "But you’ve got a visitor."

Jim’s fork clattered on the plate as he set it down. "What kind of visitor?"

"It’s a woman. Oriental," Mrs. Hudson whispered. "She’s right outside—should I send her in? I know it’s early, but she’s in such a state and she said it was important."

Jim nodded. Perhaps the morning wasn’t a complete write-off after all. "Tell her to come in."

"Don’t you want to get dressed first, Jimmy?"

Halfheartedly he straightened the dressing gown. "Send her in."

Mrs. Hudson slipped out, returning with a young Chinese woman. There were marks in her carefully applied mascara where tears had threatened to fall, and her lips quivered. He noted the attractive but professional clothing she wore. Someone with an important job who regularly interacted with the public, he decided. She’d taken great care with her makeup, despite her obvious distress—clearly she was going to work that day.  _Somewhere that’s open on weekends_ .

"Good morning," she greeted in a soft, clear voice that only quavered slightly.

_Good speaker._ His eyes dropped to her nails. They were perfectly trimmed but a red dust powdered their surface, neither dirt nor brick dust. "Morning." He motioned for her to take a seat.

"I’m sorry I’m disturbing you so early." She sat down, nervously smoothing her long, glossy hair. The corner of a name tag peeked out behind it. "But it’s a very important matter."

"Quite alright. Oh, this is my flatmate, Molly Hooper." Jim gestured to Molly.

Molly smiled. "Hi."

"Something must have upset you to make you risk being late for the museum by coming here." Jim leaned casually against the kitchen counter. "Perhaps you can tell us what, and why you’ve come to us."

The woman’s eyes widened. "You know who I am?"

"Only where you work—simple deduction. National Antiquities Museum I would guess, by the clay on your hands."

She chuckled humourlessly to herself. "The blog was right about you."

"Sorry, blog?"

The woman looked at Molly. "Yes. A few days ago, someone was telling me about you so I looked you up and stumbled onto her website. It was an interesting read—I wasn’t sure if I could believe it. But I remembered it when... when..." Her voice began to crack. Pulling some tissue from her pocket, she wiped her eyes and continued. "My name is Soo Lin Yao. You were right—I do work at the National Antiquities Museum. I came to you because... I need your help. You are a detective?"

"Yes." Jim flinched, feeling the intensity of Molly’s smug gaze on him without having to turn around. Someone was actually  _reading_ her blog? Was there really so little else on the internet to draw their attention? "You... You want to hire me?"

She nodded. "I don’t know how much you usually charge, but I will pay anything. I just want my brother back."

"Your brother? What happened to him?" asked Molly.

"I don’t know," Soo Lin sniffed. "He had... He had finally made it out of China. He was coming to live with me. I last spoke to him when he arrived at the train yesterday. He called me. But when I went to pick him up... there was no sign of him. I thought perhaps he’d taken a taxi, so I went home and waited for him. He never came."

Jim folded his arms. "Have you been to the police?"

"Yes. And I’ve phoned all the hospitals. No one knows anything about him. It’s as if he just vanished." She wiped her eyes again. "I know if he could, he would contact me. He wouldn’t let me worry like this. Something must be wrong—something’s happened to him." Her head tilted up and she looked at Jim with moist eyes. "Will you help me find him? Please?"

"Of course," assured Molly. "We’ll do everything we can. Won’t we, Jim?"

Jim caught the warning tone in her voice. She was daring him to argue. "Yes, of course," he echoed. "We’ll find your brother."

"Thank you." Soo Lin rose from the chair, warmly shaking Jim’s hand and then Molly’s. "Thank you. However much you want, I will pay it if you can bring Liang back to me."

"No charge. I don’t do this for the money."

"Uh," Molly interjected. "He means the fee will be minimal. We do have rent to pay," she whispered to Jim.

As soon as they’d gotten a few more details from Soo Lin and she’d left, promising they could contact her at the museum, Jim spun to face Molly. "You don’t get to decide which cases we take," he growled.

She shrugged. "You were going to take it anyway, weren’t you?"

"That’s not the point!"

A smile twitched across her lips. "I’m still waiting for you to thank me, by the way."

"For what?"

"Getting us a case." She raised an eyebrow. "You made fun of my blog."

"With good reason. The kind of people who read your blog aren’t necessarily the kind of clientele we want."

"She seemed nice."

" _She_ was, but what about the next person? You know what internet people are like."

Molly laughed. "‘Internet people’?"

"I have an image to maintain." Jim paced the room, the bottom of his dressing gown swishing over the floor. "I only take very select cases."

"And when was the last time you had a proper client? And before you say anything, Donovan doesn’t count."

"Oh," waving his hands, Jim dismissed the matter, "what do you know about my cases?"

Sighing and shaking her head to herself, Molly rose from her seat. "So, are we going to that station?"

Jim stopped his pacing. "I thought you wanted to go out with these ‘mates’ you’ve somehow acquired."

"That poor woman’s brother’s missing. I want to help. Besides," she smiled just a little, "solving mysteries is more fun."

Jim smiled back. "True enough. Let’s call a cab. Although," he paused, "I should probably change first..."

When they reached the station, a train had just come in and the platform was swarming with people, all bustling about like a swarm of ants at a picnic. The noise rattled inside Jim’s head, so much unnecessary shouting and chatter and the sound of hundreds of feet upon the concrete floor. His thoughts were suffocated in the rush and tumult. Molly kept up a brisk pace beside him, her eyes darting through the crowd with trepidation. It pleased him, perhaps sadistically, that she was as ill at ease in the public environment as he was.

The first person they approached was the stationmaster. He seemed anxious to be done with them and answered their questions brusquely, scratching his considerable girth as he spoke.

"I already had that girl asking here." He leafed through some papers. "Told her the same thing I’m telling you. This Liang-whatever-his-name-is was seen getting off the train at two-thirty yesterday afternoon. Probably left the station after that—which makes him somebody else’s problem. We got him here safe and sound, anything else that happens is nothing to do with me."

Jim wrinkled his nose as the man took a puff from a cigarette stub. "But did anyone actually  _see_ him leave the station?"

"Nope. But he’s not here, so it stands to reason he must have, don’t it?"

"But he told his sister he’d wait here for her to pick him up," said Molly. "Why would he change his mind and leave?"

"How the hell should I know? Like I said, not my problem."

Jim and Molly exchanged glances. It was clear they were getting nowhere.

"Well, thank you for your time." Jim tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "We’ll keep looking."

"Do you think he’s right? Molly asked as they left the office. "Liang Yao disappeared somewhere else?"

Jim shrugged. "Not enough data for theories yet, Molly. At present there are a multitude of possibilities swirling before us, each as nebulous as the next. We need to look further."

"But we’ve got nothing to go on."

Tracing a wide circle with his hands steepled, Jim surveyed the platform. "Someone must have seen something. There were hundreds of people coming and going yesterday."

"We can’t track down every person who was here yesterday and question them."

"No." He spun to face her. "But we can ask the porters, the guards—any member of the staff who was on duty then. This place is duller than Anderson’s face. If you worked here day after day, surely you’d start looking for the unusual, the out of place? Anything to elevate you above the humdrum. Such activity would be carefully noted, even if you thought nothing of it at the time."

"So we talk to the guards then?"

"No, no, we start with the porters. They’re a better bet—guards are paid to look for suspicious activity. Gets boring after awhile. Makes them less likely to notice things."

Molly frowned. "Not everyone is as easily bored as you are, you know."

"I know. Small minds are easily filled."

Opening her mouth offer a retort, Molly was silenced as her phone began to ring. Jim saw her grimace as she checked the screen.

"Your mother again?" he asked casually.

"I’m not going to answer it."

Jim shrugged. "You really should. Maybe then she’ll stop bothering you."

"I don’t want to talk to her."

"She obviously wants to talk to you. Maybe she wants to apologise for whatever happened."

Molly’s jaw clenched. "I’m not the one she needs to apologise to."

The phone continued to ring.

Folding his arms, Jim leaned against the wall. "Answer it or don’t, but we’re on a case so let’s not dither here forever."

She stared at the phone, pursing her lips. In a sudden moment of decision she answered and held it to her ear. "Hello? Mum?"

Jim smiled.

"Yes, it’s me. I know, I know, I got your texts." Tapping her foot, Molly began to pace. "I’m okay. I’ve been in London a few weeks—things are working out pretty well. How about you? Good, good. Yes, I’m at Bart’s again. Mum, you know this is my job. It’s what I trained for."

Her eyebrows were so cute when they were drawn together like that, forming a crease in the middle. Jim wished he could take a picture.

"I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you. Things—things have just been really hectic lately. Getting used to city life again, you know? Yes, I did find a place. I got a lovely little flat. Um... Um, I don’t know if that would be a good idea." Her face contorted as she fought back some retort on the tip of her tongue. "Of course I want to see you again, Mum. It’s just not the best time right now. I’m very busy—with work and stuff. And the flat’s always a mess, I’d be embarrassed to have you over."

"I could tidy up a bit," Jim whispered.

Mouthing "no" and shaking her head frantically, Molly looked the picture of flustered irritation. "Mum, really, I don’t think— O-Okay, um... Okay... Tomorrow? But— Alright. I’ll have it ready. Yes, Mum. It’s 221B Baker Street. Uh, I have to go now, I’m working on something. Yes, I’ll try. Okay. Goodbye." Her eyes slid closed and she breathed out a long sigh as she put the phone back in her pocket. "I shouldn’t have answered the bloody thing."

Jim grinned. "Am I to take it we’re having company tomorrow?"

"Shut up."

It was a long task to question all the staff who’d been working the previous day, and one that was consistently proving fruitless the more people they interviewed. A couple of porters remembered seeing someone matching Liang Yao’s description, but there’d been nothing out of the ordinary. As Jim suspected, not a single guard had seen anything. It was as if Liang had gotten off the train and simply vanished in a crowd. Since that was impossible, some unknown element was clearly at work.

Jim loved unknown elements.

Help came at last from an unlikely source. They’d just finished speaking to the last porter and were crossing the platform when they passed a man sweeping up dirt and litter. On a whim Jim paused. "Sorry to bother you," he greeted. "I’m Jim and this is Molly. We were wondering if we might speak to you a moment."

"I’m working." The old man kept sweeping, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"We just want to know if you’ve seen a young Chinese man—Liang Yao," said Molly. "He arrived here yesterday by train."

Rubbing his bearded chin, the man considered. "Liang Yao? Something about that name... Oh, I remember. It stuck in my mind ‘cause it sounded funny. I heard them paging him on the speakers yesterday. Don’t ask me what it was about ‘cause I don’t know."

A familiar surge of adrenaline raced through Jim’s veins. God, he lived for the little twists and breakthroughs in a case. "Thank you, you’ve been very helpful."

They raced to the front desk, Jim throwing his elbows onto it and demanding to speak to whoever had been manning the PA system the day before. A stooped older woman was brought out, beaming at them and wishing them good morning. Jim didn’t pause to greet her, instead launching straight into his questions.

"Yesterday you were working?" he began.

"Yes, love," she nodded. "Worked every week for fifteen years now, never missed a day."

"Fascinating, I’m sure. Did someone ask you to call a Liang Yao to the front desk?"

The wrinkles in her face stretched as she thought back. "Hmm... You know, I think you’re right. Someone was asking about him."

"Who? What was this person like?"

"Oh, he was a nice young man. So polite. He had on some of those dark sunglasses, so I didn’t see his face too well, but he looked very handsome." She chortled to herself.

Jim tried to keep his patience in check. "Did anyone come to the desk after you called Liang Yao?"

"I think so. Yes—I remember an Asian man coming. I suppose he must have been the man I paged. He and the other man started talking about something, but I went back to my work and lost track of them I’m afraid, love."

"It’s alright, you’ve been a great help," assured Molly. She turned to Jim. "What does this mean? Who was the other man?"

Jim grinned. "I have absolutely no idea."

 


	8. Chapter 7

They left the station and returned to Baker Street, having accomplished little in Molly’s eyes. Jim however was prancing about like a child at Christmas. Part of her was glad he’d shaken off some of his melancholy, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go of all her hostility. Normally she tolerated his eccentricities; now they got on her nerves.

Jim was the least of her problems however.

As they entered the flat, she was instantly aware of trash littering the floor, the dust, and the strange assortments of possessions Jim had arrayed throughout the room in a slapdash fashion. For someone who was always preaching the gospel of organization and orderliness, Jim could be extraordinarily messy, and seemed to have an aversion to throwing anything away—either because the bin was "too far away" or "I might need it later!"

"God," she muttered, "why did I tell Mum she could come over?"

Jim hung up his coat. "You could cancel."

"You don’t understand. She never takes no for an answer."

"Why don’t you cook something?"

Molly’s brow creased. "What?"

"You might burn the flat down," offered Jim hopefully. "Then she couldn’t visit."

"You’re no help at all."

He giggled and threw himself across the couch. "I’m quite looking forward to meeting this mysterious mother of yours. I hope she lives up to her ominous reputation."

A stab of dread ran through Molly’s heart. "You are  _not_ meeting her. God, the flat is bad enough!"

"What’s wrong with me?" Jim feigned offense. Or maybe it was real—she could never tell with him.

She put her hands on her hips. "What  _isn’t_ wrong with you?"

"Has anyone ever told you what a nasty girl you are, Molly Hooper?" Folding his hands behind his head, Jim grinned up at her.

Molly decided to ignore him. Loosening her hair and hanging up her coat, she knelt to the floor and began picking up the multitude of rubbish strewn everywhere. She could see Jim watching her out the corner of her eye, but he made no move to help. Naturally. She ground her teeth together and snatched up everything in sight. Her mother always said she’d need to learn housekeeping if she was ever going to get a husband.  _Maybe that’s why I’m still single,_ she chuckled bitterly. And her mother would be sure to harp on that point when she came over. 

"One of yours?" Molly held up a test tube that still had some dry crystalline remains stuck to the bottom. She handled it gingerly, wondering what chemicals Jim had been experimenting with that time.

Jim sat up. "I was wondering where that went."

"This is why you need to keep the place tidy." Rising from her knees she marched with great purpose and dropped the tube in the bin. "Otherwise you might lose things."

"Hey! I needed that!"

Once the trash had been cleared Molly got a mop and set to work on the kitchen floor, sighing as the chemical stains on the tiles refused to disappear. Honestly, of all the places to conduct his experiments, Jim  _would_ choose the kitchen table. Her mother was going to have a fit.

Apparently growing bored watching her clean, Jim took out his phone and she saw him hold it over his face as he lay down, his eyes roving across the screen. Molly wrung the dirty water from the mop and set it back in its place, proceeding to wipe down the counters with a damp cloth. Were those bloodstains in one corner? She shook her head to herself. Just what kind of experiments did Jim conduct?

"Oh." It was a drawn out noise from Jim, but when Molly turned around she realised it was addressed more to himself than her. The bridge of his nose was wrinkled as he stared at the phone, his mouth still open.

"Jim?"

"I got an email." Jim sat up. "Seems we’re on a roll today. We have another client."

Molly put down the cloth. "What? Who?"

"An old... friend." His voice was soft, careful.

"I didn’t realise you  _had_ friends." She would have felt bad for that if he hadn’t mocked her own lack of social interaction that morning.

Jim smiled, his eyes remaining glassy. "I don’t."

"Who is it?"

"Someone I went to school with. Haven’t seen him in years." He folded his hands. "Carl Powers."

"What does he want?" asked Molly.

Jim sprung from the couch. "Didn’t say exactly. Apparently there’s been some trouble at the bank he works at. He wants me to look into it." His eyes kept flicking from one side to the other, but never meeting Molly’s.

"Are you going to?"

Drawing a breath, Jim nodded with more enthusiasm than necessary. "Two cases in one day! Christmas is a teeny bit early this year!" He started towards his bedroom. "Get yourself cleaned up, Molly."

She frowned. "Wait, you want to go now? I need to get this flat ready for Mum tomorrow."

"Boring! You can do that later." The door slammed behind him. "Wear something nice," he added from within.

Holding herself stiffly, Molly leaned against the kitchen cabinets.  _I don’t have to listen to him,_ she told herself.  _It’s time he realised I’m not just here to follow him around while he tries to be clever._ But already she was marching to her room to change out of her dusty clothes.

When she emerged, wearing a brown jumper over a red blouse and blue jeans, she waited at the door for Jim. Toby sat beside her, enjoying the occasional petting.  _He’s lovely_ , she thought, admiring his round face. He’d always love her, no matter what. If only the same could be said for humans.  _Damn_ , she realised,  _Mum hates cats. I’ll have to shut Toby in my room._

She heard the sound of Jim’s door opening. Straightening her hair and grabbing her handbag, she put her hand on the doorknob, ready to go out.

"How do I look?" Jim twirled around for her as he entered the sitting room.

Molly’s brow shot up.

His hair had been combed back, though the front locks were starting to curl back up, and his chin had been shaved clean. These were minor changes. Gone was the jacket, the old t-shirt, the faded jeans. In their place was a dark, perfectly fitted suit. It was crisp and sleek, matching the thin black tie he wore. Beneath it lay a clean white shirt. The whole ensemble completely transformed Jim, lending him an air of power and elegance.

Molly recognised the suit as one she’d seen in the other wardrobe. Remembering the dust, she wondered how long it had been since he’d last worn it.

"Is that what you’re wearing?" Jim scrutinised her.

She recovered from her surprise. "I didn’t want to overdress."

"If you’re going to do something, better to go too far than not far enough." He smoothed the fabric of his suit. "Shall we go?"

As they tramped down the stairs, they met Mrs. Hudson on her way out. "Oh, hello," she greeted, pausing when she saw Jim. "Jimmy, you look splendid!"

"Just on my way to the bank."

"Goodness, the last time I saw you like that was in Florida," cooed Mrs. Hudson. "You used to look dress so well back then. I’m glad you’re starting to take some pride in your appearance again."

"I told you, I’m just going to the bank. Didn’t want to look sloppy."

Once they were out the front door, Molly frowned at Jim. "It’s a nice suit."

"Thank you."

She licked her lips. "Must have been expensive."

"Oh, very." Jim waved to a passing cab.

"Where’d you get it?"

The cab stopped. "Bought it," Jim replied casually, opening the door.

They travelled to the bank in silence. When they arrived, Molly couldn’t contain her awe at the size of the building. Compared to the little place she used to take her dad to pick up his pension cheques at, it was like a miniature city. Suddenly she felt out of place in her casual clothing, especially next to Jim. They entered through the revolving doors, taking an escalator up to a floor where every surface seemed to gleam like polished glass. Phones were ringing all around and everyone moved with a purposefulness that made her feel small. She hung behind Jim, letting him approach the front desk.

"Jim Moriarty." He put his hands on the counter. "I believe Carl Powers is expecting me."

A woman beckoned them to follow her and they were ushered through the spotless halls to an equally impeccable office. Upon entering a man rose to greet them, his face a mask of polite courtesy. His suit looked if anything even more expensive than Jim’s, and his dark hair was swept forward stylishly.

"James Moriarty." The man extended his hand, a gold watch glinting on his arm. "My god, you still look the same."

After a pausing in apparent consideration, Jim shook the man’s hand. "I can’t say the same for you."

"I know, the suit and tie’s a bit of a new look." He laughed. "I’m loving it, though."

Jim gazed at him, unblinking. "You used to be in shape. Swimming days are over, huh? You always said you’d make a career out of it."

"Well," Powers shrugged, "we all have dreams when we’re kids. They don’t all come true. Still, I’ve done pretty well for myself, eh?" He gestured to the office.

Jim turned to Molly, who offered a weak smile. "This is my friend, Molly Hooper."

"Hello," Molly murmured.

"Friend?" Raising an eyebrow, Carl shook her hand. "Friend-friend or girlfriend?"

"Well, er, flatmate actually," said Molly, blushing.

Carl nodded knowingly. "Of course. You never were one for friends, were you, James?"

"I never found anyone who met my standards." Folding his hands carefully behind his back, Jim fixed a smile on his face. "You said you needed my help?"

"Yes. Sit down." Gesturing to the two seats in front of the desk, Carl sank into his own chair. "We already have our own security people working on it, but you always had that... funny way of looking at things. I thought maybe you’d spot something they missed."

Molly saw Jim tense, almost imperceptibly.

"I’m always happy to help out an old friend." Her flatmate leaned forward, still smiling glassily. "What’s the problem?"

"It’s the strangest thing," said Carl, switching on the monitor on his desk. "See this office?" He pointed to the screen, displaying an image of an elegantly furnished office. "Sir William’s office—the bank’s former chairman. The room’s been left here like a sort of memorial. Well, it seems someone broke it into it last night." Tapping on the keyboard, he changed the image. "This is security footage taken sixty seconds later." Suddenly there were streaks of yellow paint splashed all over the room.

Jim studied the image. "Do you know how they got in?"

"Well, there’s the deuce of it. We log every door that opens in our computer—they were all closed last night. And there’s no other way in. Or there shouldn’t be—that’s where you come in. Somewhere there’s a hole in our security."

"And you want me to find it?"

"If you succeed where our own people have failed, you’ll be rewarded very handsomely." Carl smiled. "I know you’re presently unemployed. I’m sure the sum we’re offering could go a long way towards easing the financial strain."

Jim pressed the palms of his hands together tightly. "I choose cases based on merit and intrigue, not how they’ll line my pocket."

"Doesn’t mean we’ll say no to a nice fat cheque though," Molly laughed awkwardly.

She received an icy glare from Jim. "Miss Hooper, didn’t we already discuss this?  _I_ decide what cases we take and all the monetary arrangements. You assist me; nothing more."

"Is that a yes or a no?" asked Carl.

Jim’s smile was cold. "I’ve always wanted a good locked room mystery. And how could I resist a friend in his hour need? Although, I will need to see the room in question."

"Of course."

As Carl led them to the former chairman’s office, Jim dropped behind and walked beside Molly. His brow was drawn down, and she wondered what thoughts were whirling through his head. Somehow the suit emphasised the intelligence written in his eyes, as well as the blank, empty look they often held. He kept his head bent low, neither looking at her nor the man walking ahead of them.

Molly glanced at the ground, clearing her throat. "You and he were never friends, were you?" She kept her voice soft.

"Oh, Molly, with astounding deductions like that you’re gonna be able to strike out on your own some day," sneered Jim.

His insults were starting to lose their effect. She found they bounced off her now, barely registering in her mind. Perhaps she was getting used to them, or maybe she realised they were only the snapping of a frightened dog. "What’s the history between you two?" she asked.

"There is no history. We went to school together."

"But there’s more than that." A conclusion formed in her mind. "You hate him."

Jim’s laugh contained no humour. "I hate everyone, my dear. I don’t play favourites."

"Here we are," Carl announced, leading them into the office they’d seen on the monitor. The fumes of the recently dried paint still clung to the air. Yellow paint covered the walls and floor, sloshed and smeared in apparent haste. In some places it had run long streaks down the wall, like yellow tendrils. There was no pattern to the graffiti; if Molly could have guessed she would say someone had just waved a paintbrush around recklessly.

Jim planted himself in the middle of the room, his head twisting this way and that as he surveyed the scene. She still couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He bent over some of the paint, sniffing it, then traced a path to the windows overlooking the city. His eyes flickered down to the streets below. From where she was, Molly couldn’t tell how high up they were, but she suspected it was a long drop down.

"We already considered the windows," said Carl. "Checked over them thoroughly. No sign any of them have been opened recently. It’s an impossible climb anyway."

"And yet somehow someone got into this room." Stalking across the room, Jim rubbed his chin. "There’s no way anyone could have been hiding in here after the room was locked, is there?"

Carl shook his head. "No. Besides, the moment the paint appeared on the screens half our security men were up here. No one could have gotten past them without being seen."

Molly felt out of her league as she watched her flatmate pace, his manner frustrated. Why did he bring her along if she was never any use to him?  _And why do I come?_

"I’ll need to think on this," Jim admitted at last.

Something is his face looked pained. She wondered how much he’d been hoping to have all the answers after a moment’s observation. Carl nodded.

"Of course. Take your time. If you can find the hole, it’ll be worth it."

After saying their goodbyes to Carl they started back down the escalator. Reaching the bottom, they were heading for the door when Jim caught Molly’s harm and jerk her around.

"Jim—"

"Lookie there," he whispered, pointing to a woman was striding past.

Molly’s eyes widened. "Is that—?"

"Soo Lin!" Jim called.

The woman stopped, turning to face them. She walked forward slowly. "Mr. Moriarty, I didn’t expect you to be here. Have you—have you found any trace of my brother?"

He shook his head. "All we know is someone paged him to front desk at the station and he wasn’t seen after that. We’re here on another case—we’re on fire today—but what I want to know is, what are  _you_ doing here?"

"Work business," she said. "I’m here to pick up some antiquities that were just transferred to us from another museum. The bank was keeping them in their vault until our display was ready."

Molly saw Jim squint. "I see. Well, fancy that. Quite a coincidence, running into you here. Life’s funny like that, isn’t it?"

"Yes." Soo Lin’s mouth quivered. "I’m sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "I’m still so worried about Liang. If-If you learn anything, you must tell me. I just want him safe."

"Of course." Jim nodded. "Well, be seeing you then. Good day."

"Bye," Molly smiled.

They left the bank, catching a cab outside. Molly watched the confidence and authority Jim had expressed in Carl’s office visibly fall away the further they got from the bank. He sank his head against the headrest and sighed.

"Any theories?" she asked after a pause.

"About what?"

"Well, you know, the cases."

"A few. All impossible."

She never would get a straight answer out of him, would she?

Reaching 221B, their footsteps clattered on the stairs as they ascended to the sitting room. Jim took an apple from the bowl on the table, holding it up in a Hamlet-like fashion for a time before taking a bite. He crunched it slowly, falling into his chair. Toby tried to hop onto his lap but he pushed him away wordlessly.

Molly returned to kitchen, picking up where she’d left off. She’d scrubbed what she could from the counters, but the cabinets remained dingy, covered in a layer of grime. She had to lean forward on tiptoes to reach the highest ones, her feet aching as she stretched herself out. As she tried to wipe off the dust and grease, some movement in the corner of her eye made her gasp and nearly fall backwards. A spider that was larger than it had any right to be crouched in the corner, surrounded by old webbing and dead flies. How long it had been living there was anyone’s guess but Molly suspected it had been Jim’s flatmate a good sight longer than she had. But even if it did have first dibs, she wasn’t going to accept it as part of the kitchen decor any more than the bloodstains on the counter.

"Jim," she called.

"What?" She heard the crunching of an apple.

The spider darted forward a few inches. Molly darted back. "I need you to get rid of something for me."

"Your mother doesn’t get here until tomorrow so I don’t see what I can do now."

"Not  _her_ , god, Jim." Molly rolled her eyes. "There’s a spider. Can you kill it or something?"

Sighing, Jim entered the kitchen, apple in hand. Molly pointed to the spider and he put the apple down, grabbing a cup and shooing the spider into it. Covering the top with his hand so it couldn’t escape, he went to the window and let the spider crawl out. "Crisis averted," he informed Molly laconically, returning the cup to the cupboard. Molly took it out and put it in the sink.

"Thanks. It... It won’t come back in, will it?" She glanced nervously at the window.

"I don’t know, I didn’t ask." Jim took another bite of the apple.

"Why didn’t you just kill it?" Wrinkling her nose, Molly began clearing away the cobwebs it had left behind.

He shrugged. "Seemed a bit unfair. It hadn’t done anything wrong."

She found herself giggling. "So you only kill spiders who’ve done bad deeds?"

"We all have our own code of honour."

Molly tried to reach the ceiling to scrub away the dust hanging down in grey threads. "When was the last time you cleaned this place? I mean properly cleaned it, not just vacuumed or gave it a light dusting."

"Cleaning is boring."

"So, never?"

Jim shrugged, looking more amused than apologetic.

With a sigh Molly straightened, wringing out the cloth in a bucket of water. "You don’t know what a neat freak my mum is. She’ll have kittens if I don’t get this place sorted before she gets here." Her mouth turned down in a frown. "You could at least lend a hand. This is your flat too."

"But  _my_ mother isn’t coming."

Molly snorted, then paused to regard him with curious eyes. "You’ve never talked about your family. What are they like?"

"Dead." Tossing the apple core into the bin, Jim clapped his hands. "Alright, if you want me to help, what do I do?"

Feeling slightly awkward, Molly smiled weakly and found another cloth. "Start with the ceilings. I can’t reach them very well and you’re taller than me."

Jim took the damp cloth from her like it was a dead rat, holding it up by a corner and letting it hang limply.

Whistling one of the tunes she’d heard on Glee, Molly continued wiping down the cabinets.

"Two cases in one day," she heard Jim mutter to himself as he began sweeping the cloth half-heartedly over the ceiling, "and instead of a heart-pounding adventure I end up doing housework."

"Well, there’s always tomorrow," Molly laughed. "Why don’t you go out investigating while Mum’s here?"

"Still trying to get rid of me?"

"No, no! Well, yes," she admitted. "But you know you’d rather be doing that than making small talk with my old mum.  _I_ would rather be doing that. Maybe you can find out where that poor girl’s brother is."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Investigate on my own? More peaceful I suppose." A frown. "I hate peaceful." His mouth pulled up in a crooked smile. "Besides, I’d be lost without my blogger."

"Shut up." She pursed her lips. He was mocking her again—and her blog. As if she wasn’t self-conscious enough already. "You just like having someone around to be impressed by your deductions." And someone to say hurtful things to so he wouldn’t have to say them to himself, she suspected.

"I’d have thought you’d like that. It makes you useful." Jim frowned at a dirty mark on the ceiling that wouldn’t go away—probably because he was slapping the cloth at the ceiling more than actually wiping it.

Molly stopped her cleaning. "Are you saying I’m not useful?"

"No," he said hurriedly. "I’m sure your skill in cutting open dead people is unparalleled."

Her eyes narrowed. "They don’t  _have_ to be dead, you know." She cast a warning glance towards the kitchen knives.

Jim grinned and continued scrubbing, finally removing the mark. They cleaned the rest of the kitchen in relative silence, until at last it was as spotless as it was ever going to be—probably not up to her mother’s standards, Molly thought with a sigh, but at least it was hygienic now. And there were no spiders.

When she returned to the sitting room however, her heart sank. The bookshelf, not only covered in at least a year’s worth of dust, contained all manner of bizarre and morbid volumes, ranging from books on rare poisons to accounts of famous murders. "You have to learn from the best," Jim had said when she questioned him about his library.

"Can’t you do something about this?" She gestured to the shelves. "I don’t need Mum thinking I have a serial killer for a flatmate."

"Why not? Might scare her away."

"At least pick up the books on the floor and do something with them."

"I ran out of room on the shelves," he protested.

Molly folded her arms. "Maybe you should get rid of some stuff. I mean, god, do you really need these?" She held up a collection of antique knives that had been framed behind glass.

"That was a gift!"

"From who?"

"A client I cleared of a stabbing charge." Jim grabbed the collection and set it back in place, blowing dust off it.

Sighing, Molly turned to the stuffed magpie on the mantle. "What about this?" It had the same coating of dust the rest of the objects had, and several of the feathers were coming loose.

"That’s Billy," said Jim firmly.

"Mum’s going to go mental when she sees all this rubbish," Molly groaned.

Jim shrugged. "Why do you care?"

"I’m the one she’ll yell at for living in this mess even though it’s  _your_ stuff!"

"But why do you  _care_ ? If you’re so angry with her about whatever happened, why does it matter?"

Molly swallowed. "B-Because it does. I don’t know. Is it so bad that I want her to not be any more disappointed in me than she already is?"

"People will always be disappointed in you, Molly." Jim raised his hands as she was about to protest. "It’s not your fault. It’s theirs. We each have our own version of reality and when other people don’t conform to it, we get angry. But the only person you need approval from is yourself. Stop giving a fuck about other people. One of the few privileges you get in life is the ability to make your own choices."

Nodding slowly, Molly surveyed the flat again, from the jumble sale-like arrangement of knickknacks to the scuffs on the wood floor. Toby was curled on Jim’s favourite chair as usual, his sides rising and falling rhythmically as he slept. For all its quirks the place had begun to feel like home. Her father would have liked it, even if he hated the bustle of city life. She breathed out a long sigh. "You’re right." Gritting her teeth, she flung the cloth to the ground. "If Mum doesn’t like it, she needn’t come again. I’m not going to change anything just for her."

"Attagirl."

Molly smiled.


	9. Chapter 8

He sat in the darkness. Somewhere above the moon was shining—well, reflecting was more scientifically accurate—and its milky light streamed through the crack between the curtains, casting a long beam over the floor. The bedroom was draped in soft shadows. Jim’s eyes were fixed on the wall as he sat, half-dressed, upon the bed.

He could see the lines marking out the bank’s blueprints on that wall, just as clearly as if they’d been etched into it. His mind worked through the rooms, studying the entrances and exits. Theories hatched and died in his mind like mayflies, but still he found himself in the office, staring at the yellow paint and shaking his head. There was an answer—it was looking straight at him, laughing at him.

Somehow, on the way to the bank he’d thought it would be so simple. He would solve the problem, prove his intellect. Prove... Prove what? That he was smart? That he wasn’t a failure? That he wasn’t insane? Jim dropped his head low. He’d proved nothing.

Then there was the other case. Liang Yao’s face sprang into his mind. He was out there somewhere, alive or dead, and Jim had promised Soo Lin he’d find him. But without knowing who the other man—the one who’d called him—was, he’d reached a dead end. If Liang had just arrived from China he couldn’t have any friends. But why would he go with a stranger? More importantly, why would a stranger bother to kidnap him? If there hadn’t been a ransom note by now, it couldn’t be an ordinary kidnapping.

And Soo Lin... Something wasn’t right about her. Jim knew coincidences happened. A thousand occurred every day and no one thought anything of them. But meeting Soo Lin at the bank? Was that really chance?

Yet he could think of no way the cases were connected.

A soft glow had begun to touch the horizon. Straightening his back and feeling a sharp crick in his neck, Jim realised he’d spent a good portion of the night sitting in thought. Something he did often enough, but usually on the more comfortable couch. He hadn’t wanted Molly to know he wasn’t sleeping, however, so he’d retired to the bedroom. If he went to sleep right away, he could probably catch a few hours of rest, but it all seemed rather pointless so he pulled one some clothes and left his room to begin breakfast.

His eyes were already adjusted to the dark and he picked out his way through the shadowed flat with ease. He would have walked right past the couch to the kitchen but something made him pause. Looking down, he saw an arm draped over the edge of the armrest, shining white in the dawn light. Jim peeked over the top of the couch. Molly lay stretched out, her other hand pillowed under her head. Her hair lay in dark tresses around her shoulders, and on the table sat a bucket of water and a dirty cloth.

"Oh, Molly," Jim whispered, resisting the urge to reach out and stroke her hair. She’d tried—she’d tried not to care. But she couldn’t do it. He wondered if it was her nature, or if her need to put the sensibilities of others first was simply something that had been spaded into her her whole life. A quick glance told him she’d at least left his belongings alone, merely dusting them off and stacking some of the excess books in the corner. The rest of the flat looked spotless. She must have worked half the night.

Tiptoeing to the kitchen, Jim brewed a pot of strong coffee, then rummaged through the cabinets. They were fuller than he remembered, thanks to the shopping Molly had done, and he was able to find everything he needed. He carefully mixed the ingredients, producing a perfect batch of fluffy white scones from the oven some time later. Arranging them with care on a tray, he then grabbed some eggs and cracked them into the frying pan. Some bacon was added which sizzled when it landed in the oil. He watched it fry, fascinated by the way the meat browned and curled over in the heat.

"Hey." He hadn’t heard the footsteps behind him.

Jim spun to face Molly. "Morning."

"You’re, um, up early." She rubbed her neck sheepishly.

"I was never down." Flipping the food out the pan and onto a plate, he gestured for her to sit. "I made you breakfast. Do you like scones?"

She blinked. "Um, yes, yes I do." When Jim set the tray in front of her, she took one, taking an experimental bite. "Oh, Jim, these are good," she said between mouthfuls. "But... You didn’t have to go to all this trouble. Especially this early..."

"How else will you have the strength to face your mother?" He grinned. "Nice work on the flat, by the way."

"Thanks..." She blushed. "Um, what-what you said yesterday... You were right. I know that. But— I suppose I’m just weak. I can’t face Mum without at least trying to please her. I’m sorry, I know it’s pathetic."

"It is," Jim agreed. "Trying to impress someone you hate."

"I don’t hate my mum," Molly said quickly.

"I wasn’t talking about you."

They ate in silence for awhile.

"Jim," said Molly after finishing a slice of bacon, "I want you to be here. When Mum comes, I mean."

"Change your mind about wanting to scare her away?"

Molly shook her head. "I don’t care what she thinks of you. You should be here. You’re part of my life now. You’re—you’re my friend."

Jim didn’t understand the tightness in his throat. "Thanks," he replied at last, blandly. What else was he supposed to say? She didn’t really mean it anyway. He had acquaintances, enemies—not friends.

Picking at her empty plate with the fork, Molly glanced up. "So, um, what—what will our next step be? In the two cases?"

"I need to talk to Soo Lin." Jim drummed his fingers on the table. "Ask her a few more questions."

"And the bank case?"

His drumming became louder and faster. "I’m still exploring possibilities."

She smirked. "You have no clue what’s going on."

"Okay, true. But I’ll get it soon."

After breakfast, Molly started preparing for her mother’s arrival—straightening the furniture, taking down the murder statistics Jim had pinned to the wall, shutting Toby in her room, and bringing out what little fine china Jim had. Jim watched from the couch, still going over the bank’s layout in his mind.

It didn’t seem fair. So many pointless deductions made in the beat of a heart, but this answer eluded him. He’d been called a freak. Maybe he was.  _Of course I am_ . But labels were nothing to be frightened of as long as you could wear them with pride. Carl had called on him  _because_ he was a freak—he needed his "special way of looking at things" as he’d put it. But Jim looked and looked and he saw nothing.

Apparently satisfied, at least for the moment, Molly leaned against the kitchen counter to rest. "How does it look?"

"Fabulous." Jim barely glanced at the flat.

"I hope Mum thinks so." Molly flicked some hair out her eyes. "She always kept the house spotless when I was a girl. Never a crooked picture frame or cushion out of place. She was always cleaning. Used to annoy my dad—he was more laid back. Liked to drop things on the floor and leave his dirty boots lying around. Mum would yell at him but he kept doing it." Her lips pressed together. Then they pulled into a fixed smiled and she looked up. "Did I ever show you pictures of our old house? It was lovely." Rushing off to her room, she returned with a thin photo album.

Jim sat up to give her room on the couch as she plopped next to him, folding open the album on her lap. The pages rustled with age when she turned them. "This was where I grew up," Molly pointed to a snug little house nestled in the city, the walls a pristine shade of white and a collection of potted roses lining the front.

What was it like growing up alone in a place like that? Jim wondered. No brothers or sisters—he knew that feeling well enough. But in a shy little house like Molly’s, a lonely girl couldn’t help taking on some of its characteristics, could she?

"There’s Dad—tending his flowers." Molly pointed to another picture. "And that’s Mum." The woman seated stiffly in a chair, a thin smile on her lips, bore little resemblance to the daughter sitting beside Jim. And yet it was easy to see where Molly’s cute upturned nose had come from and her flowing hair. "She never liked having her picture taken."

"Is that you?" Jim put his finger on a photo of a smiling girl with a mop of blonde hair.

Molly blushed. "Er, yes. I think I was five when that was taken."

She leafed through more pages, showing pictures of inside the house, birthdays, family gatherings, Christmas. But two pages after Molly’s fourteenth birthday the album came to an abrupt halt. She closed it sheepishly. "Well, that’s that."

"Is there another one after this?" He was interested in spite of himself.

"Um... no."

"Why not?"

Molly looked away. "‘Cause this is when my mum and dad split up... I stayed with Mum. We never seemed to take any pictures after that."

A knocking jolted them both and Molly was on her feet in an instant, letting the album drop from her lap. "God, is that Mum already?" Fleeing down the stairs, with Jim following sedately behind, she yanked open the door. "..Oh."

"Morning, Sally." Jim rested against the banister when he saw who was at the door.

"Mr. Moriarty." She nodded stiffly, turning to the breathless Molly. "...Hooper, was it?"

"Yes," Molly took a deep breath. "Sorry, I thought you were someone else."

With a thud Jim hopped to the bottom of the stairs. "It’s not like you to make social calls, Donovan. What’s up?"

"I hear you’ve been looking for a man named Liang Yao who just arrived in the country."

Jim nodded. "Sure to find him soon too."

"Don’t bother, we already did."

"What?" Molly blinked. "Where?"

"An alley," said Donovan. "He’s dead."

For a moment, Jim felt a choking tightness in his chest. "When did he die?"

"Two days ago, according to the coroner."

The pressure went away. He hadn’t failed—there was no way he could have found Liang alive. Now there was a whole new angle to the case. His favourite angle. "Murder?"

The detective inspector nodded. "Stabbed to death. I thought you might want to take a look."

Jim clapped his hands together. "Of course. You know I wouldn’t miss it."

"Has some told his sister?" Molly asked quietly.

He frowned. "Whose sister?"

"Liang Yao’s. You know, Soo Lin." His flatmate sighed. "We said we’d help her..."

"She’s been informed," said Donovan.

"Good. Off we go then." Jim was already out the door. He could feel it, the blood rushing to his head and his skin tingling. Nothing like a good murder. Maybe it was what he needed to jumpstart his mental processes so he could solve Carl’s case. "Come on, Molly!"

When they arrived at the scene, the narrow alley was fulled to the brim with police. A photographer circled the prone form lying on the trash-littered ground, his camera flashing. Serjeant Lestrade met them as they got out of Donovan’s car. "Don’t think we’ll be needing His Highness on this case, Boss," he said to Donovan. "Hi, Molly." He beamed at her and she waved shyly back.

Jim frowned.

"Always good to get a second opinion," shrugged Donovan.

"But all the victim’s valuables—wallet, watch, mobile phone—have been taken. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a mugging here, simple as that."

"The only thing simple here is you," sneered Jim. "Someone picked up Liang Yao from the train station. Our murderer, in all probability. If I were mugging someone I’d just choose any old person who looked like an easy target. I wouldn’t go hunting for someone special at train stations. But it’s more than that—whoever picked him up knew his name. This wasn’t some random mugging—this was coldly planned out, premeditated murder."

Lestrade folded his arms. "Alright, fair enough, but why? Tell me that. Why would anyone want to kill him? He just got here."

"Now that’s where it gets tricky," Jim admitted. "I don’t know yet."

"Can we look at the body?" asked Molly.

Nodding, Donovan led them through the crowded alley and leaned over the corpse, pointing to the blood pooling beneath him, soaking through the clothing. "Stabbed twice in the abdomen, cuts on one of the arms. Looks like he tried to fight off his killer."

Jim and Molly knelt beside her. It was definitely the same man as in the photograph Soo Lin had given them, though his face was twisted in agony. He lay on his side, two glistening red marks just visible on his stomach. There was a pale band on his wrist where his watch normally lay, and bruising as if it had been hastily ripped off.

"They wanted this to look like a mugging," mused Jim. "Probably drove him here then made him get out and tried to stab him. But he wouldn’t go down easily, he resisted."

Molly, nodded pointing to his hand. "You can see lacerations where he tried to hold off the knife." Her brow creased. "What’s this?"

Jim followed her finger to a faint red impression on the dead man’s neck. A circular bruise was forming, as if something hard and round had been shoved against his throat. Peering closer, Jim traced a finger just over it. "Interesting..."

"What’s that?" asked Donovan.

"Can’t say," Jim shrugged. "Could be anything."

"It— Well, it looks..." Molly trailed off, her face reddening. "Sorry, it’s probably nothing."

Jim pulled himself up, dusting off his knees and leaning against the graffiti-covered wall. "Molly, please don’t talk. I’m thinking." The scene played out through his mind in flashes. Liang being shoved out the car, falling into the alley in confusion. The other man coming at him with a knife. A moment of fear then reflexes took over and Liang dodged, trying to grab the knife from his attacker’s hand. It sliced through his palm and he fell back in pain. Lunging, the killer shoved the knife into Liang, drawing it out as Liang kicked and fought, then plunging it in again and letting the dying man drop gasping to the dirt. Surely somewhere the murderer had made a mistake. Some little slip that would be his downfall.

"Motive," he muttered, frustrated. "Motive! Who would want him dead?"

"Maybe it was some creep who gets his kicks by abducting strangers and killing them," suggested Donovan. "Our boy here just happened to be the unlucky one who got picked."

The idea bounced in Jim’s head for an instant then dissolved. "No," he rubbed his chin. "I told you, the killer knew his  _name_ . Liang was always going to be the victim."

"Um, Jim." Molly touched his shoulder.

"Shut up, I’m still thinking!" He whirled around, eyes scanning the filthy alley floor. A terrible place die, not one he’d pick. It was grimy and strewn with all manner of disgusting trash, and at night the rats would come out to gnaw your face off. It was also a very good place to murder someone. Any button that fell off your coat in a struggle, any item that slipped out your pocket would be lost, impossible to distinguish from the sea of rubbish. There could be a vital clue staring them in the face and they’d never know it.

"Jim..."

"WHAT?" He faced Molly, putting a hand on his hip.

She swallowed. "Shouldn’t we get back...? To the flat?"

"Why?"

"Mum’ll be here soon..."

"Oh." Jim ran a hand through his hair. "Murders or mothers? Not really a choice there. Murders any day. But," he saw her pout, "I suppose just once I can make an exception. Now, if I could find a way to mix murders  _and_ mothers..." He turned to Donovan. "Sorry, gotta pop off now, but I will give you this: the man you’re looking for was taller than Yao, and he didn’t escaped the fight unscathed."

Lestrade frowned. "How do you know that?"

"Right fist—look at the bruises. Liang hit him hard, and the angle of the bruising suggests it was an upward punch. Someone taller than him. Not much to go on, but every little bit helps, as they say." Jim clasped his hands. "Right, well, we have to go. Got an appointment with doom. Well, okay, Molly’s mother, but close enough. Later, kiddos!"

They marched out the alley, heading for the street to find a taxi. "Oh, Molly," Jim’s strides were long and theatrical, almost dancing, "this changes everything! We went from a dead-end case to a dead man in an alley! Always love that. Now the real work can begin. Tracking down the murderer!"

"Remember that someone—a living, breathing human being—is now dead. That’s not something to laugh about, Jim."

"And I’m gonna do everything I can to find the person who killed him," assured Jim. "Doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun at the same time."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I think you’re a horrible person."

"Only sometimes?" Jim laughed, and though she tried to bite down on her lip Molly joined him. They giggled together as they climbed into a cab.

"You’re making me just as horrible as you," sighed Molly, stifling another laugh.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing."

It didn’t take them long to get back to Baker Street. "I hope we have time to set out some tea," worried Molly as they climbed the stairs. "We’re cutting it a bit close."

"But for a good cause." Jim put his hand on the door handle. "Admit it, you’re beginning to enjoys murders too."

There was a sly smile on her lips. "I always liked them. They’re my favourite cases at the morgue."

He grinned back, pushing the door open. "I knew there was a reason I keep you around." His face froze as he entered the flat. "Oh. Hello."

He had to grab Molly’s arm to steady her. A look of horror he normally only saw on the faces of corpses passed over her features. "Mum. You’re early."

Sitting in a chair, the woman was like an aged mirror of the photograph Molly had showed him that morning. Though the tone of her hair remained as chestnut as before, the lines in her face had grown longer, deeper. Her eyes were as dark and hard as ebony. She had her hands folded tightly on her lap, and her expression as she looked up at them was one that reminded Jim of someone sucking something sour.

"Your landlady was kind enough to let me up," the woman saidy. "Since there was no one to greet me when I arrived."

"Um, sorry." Molly licked her lips, her eyes flicking around the room, not meeting her mother’s gaze. "We, er, we were out. Something came up. B-But we tried to get back in time to meet you."

"Well, you didn’t." Her mother rose. "Who’s he?" She looked to Jim, and he smiled his most psychopathic smile.

Giving him a look, Molly tried to smile to her mother. "This—this is my flatmate, Jim."

"You didn’t tell me you were living with someone." The woman advanced closer, scrutinising Jim.

"Well, um, I-I didn’t think it was important," stammered Molly. "We’re just sharing the rent."

Raising a hand, Jim wiggled his fingers in a friendly wave. "Hi, Jim Moriarty. You must be Mrs. Hooper."

She sniffed. "Jane Sawyer. I haven’t been Mrs. Hooper for a long time."

"Sorry." He grinned, thrusting out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

Regarding him coldly, she took the hand and shook it for a second before pulling away. "Tell me, how did the two of you come to meet?"

"In the morgue," beamed Jim. "Well, okay, not actually  _in_ the morgue. One of us would have to be dead for that. Near the morgue. I borrowed her phone, she asked to move in with me. Good times."

" _Jim._ " The low growl in Molly’s voice surprised him. "Jim was working at the hospital when we met, Mum. He couldn’t pay the rent and I needed a place to stay, so we decided to do a flatshare."

"Are you a doctor then?" Her mother asked Jim.

"God, no."

Molly’s smile became more forced. "He’s, um, a consulting detective for the police. He solves crimes."

"Is that why you were talking about murders like a pair of vultures at a carcass when you came in?" Her voice was sharp as glass.

"Might be, yeah." Jim shrugged, still grinning.

Sweeping past them to the kitchen, Molly lifted the kettle. "Um, Mum, would you like some tea? I’ll just put the kettle on."

"Alright, at least you haven’t completely forgotten your manners." The woman sank back into her seat. "And then I think we should have a nice long talk. It’s been so long since I last saw you."

* * *

When the tea had brewed, Molly poured out three cups and set them on a tray, banging it down on the table with more force than perhaps necessary. Her mother raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment.

Jim had taken the opposite couch and she seated herself beside him, casting a warning glance his way that she suspected he would ignore. There was a stickiness on her palms as she lifted the china cup to her lips. Why was it always like this with Mum? Never with her father. She’d always been comfortable around him.  _Maybe ‘cause he accepted who I was_ . But Mum was here and Dad wasn’t, so she had to make the best of it. "So..." she began at last, crockery clinking as she put the cup in its saucer. "How have you been, Mum?"

"Well enough." Her mother sipped her tea. "One of my students was just accepted into an orchestra. It’s a small orchestra, of course, but we’re all very proud of her. Though you’d know all this already if you’d bothered to keep in touch."

Molly’s lips opened, but she felt her throat closing up on her. Always,  _always_ her mother would find ways to put her down or make her feel guilty.  _Just like she did with Dad._

"You teach music?" Jim broke the silence.

Molly sent him the faintest of smiles, grateful he’d come to her rescue.

Her mother nodded. "The piano. I’ve won several awards, you know." She shifted her gaze to Molly. "Always tried to teach my daughter to play, but she never would learn. Refused to take an interest. Apparently the only instruments she has time for are scalpels."

Molly swallowed. It was better to say nothing. Always better to keep quiet.

"Your daughter has good taste." After sipping his tea, Jim licked the remaining drops from his lips. "I suppose she gets it from her father."

_Jim, please, don’t._ It was all Molly could do to keep the forced smile on her face as her mother’s eyes turned icy. 

"Do you like insulting people, Mr. Moriarty?" Her voice was stony.

Jim tilted his head, his lower lip jutting out as he pretended to consider. Then his teeth shone in a smile. "Yes."

There was indignation written all over her mother’s face. Molly sank further into her seat, putting her arms around herself, trying to maker herself shrink.

"You’re wrong about my daughter’s taste. It must be terrible for her to move in with someone like you."

"Funny," laughed Jim, "I was just going to use that as evidence to argue the opposite."

"Please, Jim," begged Molly. "Behave yourself just this once. I don’t want fighting."

"Oh, Molly, Molly, Molly." Jim leaned back, hands behind his head. "Fighting’s the most fun you can have when you’re meeting someone’s mother. Wait, no, I tell a lie— _deducing_ is the most fun you can have. For example," he put his chin in his hand, "for all your talk of success, Ms. Sawyer, you aren’t doing quite as well as you’d like us to believe. Nice job on that blouse, by the way, it’s almost impossible to tell it’s been mended twice.  _I_ would have just looked for a cheap replacement, but I suppose appearances must be maintained."

Molly’s expression of growing horror mirrored her mother’s.

"If money is tight though you really shouldn’t keep dyeing your hair and buying expensive perfumes to impress that lawyer you’re sleeping with. If he was serious about you, he would have taken you somewhere fancier last night. Probably married. I’d look elsewhere. Ooh, wait." Now Jim’s eyes were alight and his mouth opened in mock shock. "You  _are_ . Two men. My, my, my, you’ve been naughty, and yet here you question your daughter’s choices."

It was only when she tasted copper that Molly realised how hard she’d been biting her tongue. Her mother’s face had gone from white to red, her hands shaking with anger. As her horror wore off, Molly felt anger rising in her own heart. Almost before she knew what she was doing, she’d drawn her hand back. A smack resounded through the room as she slapped it across Jim’s smug face. A red mark appeared on his cheek.

Slowly, he moved a hand to rub his face. His eyes were wide, confused, staring at Molly as if she’d betrayed him.

"Get out," Molly hissed.

He found his voice. "I was just—"

"Get out." Her finger was thrust towards the door and her tone firm.

Rising with the speed of an arthritic sloth, Jim continued to stare at Molly. He then shared a cold glare with her mother and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Molly rested her head against the couch and rubbed her temples.


	10. Chapter 9

"Damn!" Mrs Hudson dropped the hot dish on the counter, sucking her fingers. One of these days she was going to invest in a good pair of oven mitts. The sweet aroma of apple pie wafted up from the dish, a small recompense for her burnt fingers. Humming to herself, she got a knife from the drawer.

"Mrs. Hudson."

She almost dropped the knife, putting a hand to her chest as she turned around. "Oh, it’s you, Jimmy."

Standing in the doorway, his shoulders limp and his eyes wide and dull, Jim looked nothing like the bright, effusive young man with a permanent dance in his step she’d met in Florida. She remembered the dazzling smile when he’d found the final piece of evidence necessary to convict her husband, the way he’d twirled around the courthouse steps after the verdict was handed down. Always in a sleek suit, his hair gelled back like he was living in the fifties. He was mad, she’d thought at the time, but delightfully so. Revelling in it.

It was as if someone had drilled a hole in his heart and slowly all that energy, all that exuberance was draining out. She’d even let him stay far longer than she should have when the rent money ran out, just to avoid that empty look he got when she told him she had to evict him. Molly had been a godsend. Some of the sparkle returned to his eyes, and she thought maybe he would go back to his old self in time.

But here he was, just as blank and subdued as before.

"Is something wrong, dear?" she asked.

He leaned a hand on each counter, his mouth pulling back as his tongue clicked against his teeth. "I don’t understand."

"You don’t understand what?"

"People."

"Well, you’re one of us, dear," she said gently.

Jim shook his head. "I’m not. I’m not like YOU." He began to pace. "I was helping. I wanted to make her feel better."

"Who?"

"Molly!" The name was spat out with more despair than anger. "I was just trying to say all the things she wanted to but couldn’t. She can’t stand her mother. Why does she sit there and take her abuse?"

Her heels tapping on the tiled floor, Mrs. Hudson reached out and brushed a hand over Jim’s shoulder. He tensed at her touch. "Oh, Jim. When you have family, you can’t just say whatever you like to them. It’s trickier than that. Especially if you still love the person, even when they drive you mad."

"But wouldn’t it be easier if we all just said what we meant?" He threw up his hands. "She threw me out. And she  _hit_ me! She hit  _me_ !" For a moment he seemed to grow angry, then he shrugged it off. "I don’t understand."

"You must have said something that really upset her."

"But I was trying to upset her mother, not her! Why would she get mad?"

Sometimes he looked so much like a lost child. Mrs. Hudson wanted to pat his head, but she knew by now such gestures would only irritate him. "Don’t you see the problem, dear?"

"No. I was helping. She should be grateful!" The was a scraping sound and Jim pulled back one of the kitchen chairs and slid into it. He leaned towards to pie, sniffing at it, and Mrs. Hudson batted his hands away. "Now she’s angry."

"Do you blame her? It wasn’t for you to interfere, Jim."

"Then she shouldn’t have told me I could stay," he declared.

"You can’t blame her for the way you acted, dear." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "You should go tell her you’re sorry."

Wrinkling his nose, he drew his head back like he’d smelled something rotten. "For what?  _She_ should apologise to me."

"It doesn’t work like that, Jimmy."

"Well it should." He flung the chair back as he got up, stalking out the room.

_Oh, Jim._ Shrugging helplessly, Mrs. Hudson returned to her pie.

* * *

Breaking into a bank wasn’t really all that hard. All you had to do was borrow a key card from an unknowing employee as you passed them on the escalator, look as inconspicuous as possible (but not  _too_ inconspicuous because that would be suspicious), and you could slip into the upper levels as easily as a knife through a heart. It was getting into a room without using doors that was hard.

Which was how Jim found himself in his present predicament, clinging to a window ledge a disturbing number of storeys above the ground.

His fingers were numb as they clenched the concrete ledge, his feet wedged against the framing of the window beneath to lend support. He tried to inch his way to the left, to position himself above the balcony leading into the former chairman’s office. Whenever he looked up he saw clouds and the tops of tall buildings. Looking down only brought him sights of a distant street and traffic whizzing past. Neither view was particularly reassuring.

The tips of his fingers grazed on the grit of the concrete as he pulled himself along the ledge. He clenched his teeth, pressing himself against the side of the building. The balcony looked so far away. And if he tried to drop down before he was directly over it, he’d end up plunging onto the pavement instead. At least the sticky mess he made would be sure to annoy Carl and lose the bank some business.

Another inch. He clawed forward. Suddenly his numb knuckles gave way and his left hand slipped, shifting all his weight to his right. Trying to swing his hand back to the ledge, he grabbed at the air, feeling the other hand slipping. "Fuck."

" _God!_ " He felt a pair of hands clamp on his arm, dragging him up. The ledge scraped against his chest, but he didn’t complain as he was pulled back through the window he’d crawled out of when he’d thought this was a good idea. 

It still would have been a good idea if he hadn’t slipped, he decided, catching his breath as he lay on the hard floor.

"What the  _hell_ were you doing?" Carl was standing over him, panting from pulling him up and grimacing as he rubbed his shoulder. The look on his face was one Jim had seen often. The "are-you-fucking-insane" look he received from Donovan at least twice a minute and the look Molly had given him just before sending him out the flat. 

"Working." Dusting himself off as he stood up, Jim was glad he hadn’t worn one of his suits this time. There were rips in the fabric of his jacket where the ledge had torn through and he was covered in brick dust.

"You were hanging off the side of the building!"

"I was trying to prove something."

Carl continued to stare at him.

"The window," Jim explained. "It’s the only possible entry point. I wanted to see if I could get to it from here." He scrunched his nose in thought. "Maybe if I had rope..."

"I told you, no one could have climbed through," Carl shook his head. "We already looked into it."

"Then how else did they get in?" he demanded. "Once you eliminate the impossible, you’ve just gotta accept whatever’s left. It had to be the window."

Looking down at him, Carl’s lips pulled back in a hint of a sneer. "And you saw fit to test this theory by climbing out the window yourself? Without informing any of the bank personnel?"

"I like the hands-on approach."

"You could have gotten yourself killed. You almost did!"

"Hazard of the job." He shrugged. It hadn’t seemed like a major concern when he was hanging on the ledge, and it concerned him even less now. "Falling’s just like flying. Except there’s a more permanent destination."

The look was back, though now it wasn’t questioning his sanity so much as reacting to his lack of it. Carl shook his head. "It’s funny, I thought maybe you’d changed. I heard you were working with the police. I thought you might have finally grown up. But you know what?" He leaned closer. "You’re still a freak."

He’d had years to grow used to the appellation, years of learning it didn’t matter what other people said or thought. So this couldn’t be stinging he felt, Jim decided. It was just anger that someone dared question his methods. "And you still hate that I’m smarter than you."

The laugh was one he remembered well, bringing him back to crowded school halls and sitting alone in the lunchroom. Carl’s sneer widened as he chuckled sharply. "Smarter? This from someone I had to save from falling off a window ledge?"

"Why did you then?" Jim stepped closer, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the other man. "Would have been easier to let me fall."

"And it probably would have done the world a favour too," agreed Carl. "Still, best to avoid the potential lawsuits and bad publicity."

"Of course." It seemed insane now that he’d tried so hard to impress his old schoolmate. He should have known he never could. He would always be that stupid boy, hiding in corners to escape the laughter. "You know, I may be a freak but at least I don’t pretend to be anything else. You lot, you  _normal_ people, you go about living your fake little lives, always hiding from yourselves. Always doing what you’re told, what you’re supposed to. Like this," he gestured to the bank. "Tell me, did you decide to become a banker, or was it just something other people thought you should do? Because you said childhood dreams don’t come true. Well, darling, your swimming days may be over but I always said I’d be a detective and guess what?" He threw his hands in the air. "Here I am!"

Carl regarded him coldly. "And guess which of us has a five digit monthly salary and which of us doesn’t even have a proper job."

It hurt to smile, yet it felt damn good all the same. "Guess which of us doesn’t CARE." He laughed. "You’re just pretending. Living the life you think you should, not the one you wanted. I suppose if I had an ounce of empathy I might even feel sorry for you, but I don’t. Look at you—how many thousand quid did that suit cost? Yet you go leaning out of windows in it to rescue me, and you don’t even  _like_ me. And that watch, the screen’s cracked. No one enjoying the role of the sophisticated banker would treat the trappings of that life with such disregard." Lowering his voice, he leaned inches from Carl’s face. "I may be insane, but I’m  _free_ ."

"You’re also fired." Carl folded his arms. "I don’t think we’ll be requiring your services after all. I’ll let our own people handle this—they’re not likely to be hanging off ledges in fits of mental instability."

"They just don’t know how to have fun." With slow, deliberate steps Jim walked around him. He bared his teeth in a grin as his face passed Carl’s. He was almost to the door when Carl spoke.

"You act so tough for the boy who read fairytales."

A stiffness rippled through his back. Jim stopped dead, his fingers curling into fists.

"How old were you, thirteen? Remember when all the kids found out? Remember how we laughed."

His lips were tight as he opened the door. Though Carl had gone silent, he could hear the laughter ringing in his ears. Jim walked out the room, wondering if it would have been easier to just fall off the ledge.

* * *

The stillness made the flat seem as if it had been frozen in time. It also felt like that calm as you waited for some inevitable disaster to hit. Molly wasn’t sure  _what_ she was waiting for, however. Her mother had gone, thank god for that, but not before she’d given a lengthy lecture berating Molly for living with someone like Jim and urging her to move out immediately. "You could come live with me," she’d said when Molly argued she had nowhere to go. Refusing her mother’s "generosity" had only increased her guilt, the gnawing feeling that she was a failure as a daughter. 

And Jim still hadn’t come back. She wasn’t sure if she was grateful or anxious. She did know she was still mad at him.

Her legs carried her wearily up the stairs to her bedroom. The meowing from Toby when she opened the door was as frantic as a crying baby, and more pathetic coming from a pudgy tabby with a hoarse voice. "I missed you too, boy," she whispered, cradling him in her arms. "I won’t lock you away again, I promise." He nuzzled her face.

Toby was nice. Toby was perfect. Toby never judged her. She knew she sounded like a mad old cat lady, but she didn’t care. At least Toby would always love her.

She set Toby down and pulled open her laptop, popping a DVD into it. Settling on the bed, her mouth lifted in a thin smile as Glee began to play.

By the time the knock on the door came, the sky outside her window had grown dark. Molly lay half asleep with the covers drawn up to her waist and Toby sleeping on her chest while the credits of another Glee episode rolled. At first she didn’t notice the sound, her eyes flickering closed, then shooting open again as she tried to stay awake. She hadn’t even had supper yet.  _Jim always makes supper..._

Then she realised the persistent hammering she heard wasn’t in her head but came from outside her door. Rubbing her eyes and smoothing the hair that fell down her face in tangled clumps, she pulled the covers aside and gently removed her cat. She padded noiselessly in socked feet to the door. It creaked open to reveal a dishevelled Jim leaning one arm against the frame, his face a blank mask. She noted a ragged rip running down his jacket.

"Hello, Molly."

She hesitated, unsure how to respond. Should she be angry? Cold? Or let it go—pretend everything was fine? "Where’ve you been?" She settled on stiff detachment.

"The bank." He moved to come in, but she blocked the doorway. "We’re off the case, by the way. Seems Mr. Powers disagrees with my investigative procedures."

"Oh." Molly found herself feeling disappointed. Two failures—they hadn’t found Soo Lin’s brother alive, and now they couldn’t solve the bank case either. Sometimes it seemed like her whole life was constructed on failures.

Jim was looking down, almost sheepishly. His lips kept twitching as if there was something he wanted to say, but silence filled the room for a long minute.

"What now?" Molly asked, folding her arms.

"We can still look for Liang Yao’s murderer. Should be fun." There was no excitement in his voice.

"Yeah."

The moment dragged on. Molly shuffled her feet, wondering if she should close the door in his face. It would be horribly rude, but it would tell him exactly how she felt about the way he’d behaved to her mother. The again, the slap had probably already done that. She blushed. She’d never slapped anyone before. There was still a faint mark on his cheek, and the slightest pangs of guilt troubled her.

"Molly," Jim began, the lilt in his voice falling out of tune. "This morning... I never meant to upset you."

"What made you think you had the right to treat my mother that way?" she demanded. "I know you think it’s funny to tear people apart, and if you want to do it to me, fine. But don’t you dare do it to my family."

He rubbed his chin. Some of the stubble was starting to return since he’d shaved. "She wasn’t treating you any better. I thought you’d be pleased if I threw some of that back at her."

"I was handling it fine without your help."

"You were just sitting there and taking it!"

She breathed deeply. "Because that’s how I deal with things. I’m not  _you_ , Jim. I can’t stop caring. Maybe it’s easier for people who don’t have hearts, but I do have one it won’t let me insult other people just because I can. Or to prove how clever I am."

"I did it for  _you_ !"

"Next time, don’t. I don’t need your help."

"Well..." He drew the word out until his voice faded, blinking and looking at the floor. "Molly— I’m sorry. Apparently I hurt you, and I am sorry for that."

The way he forced the words out made her suspect he was a stranger to apologies. Sorry was an old friend of hers, but usually she was the one saying it. It felt odd to be on the receiving end. Molly’s hand brushed slowly down her hair for a time, then she said, "Okay." He wasn’t forgiven, but it was a start. "You should be apologising to Mum, though."

"She’s not here." He suddenly glanced around. "Unless she never left, in which case I will be on my way out."

"No, she’s gone. But she made me promise to go out to dinner with her tomorrow night. You should apologise to her when she comes to pick me up."

Jim grimaced like a man eating a mouthful of worms. "Must I?"

"Yes."

"What do I get in return?"

"I don’t feed you to Toby."

"Fair enough."

Molly allowed herself to smile. Jim followed suit. "So, when’s dinner?" she asked at last.

"After the day I’ve had, I think I’ll just order takeout." He raised his eyebrows. "Unless you wanna help me steal Mrs. Hudson’s apple pie. No? Alright, takeout it is."

They ended up on the couches in the sitting room a short time later, an open box of pizza taking up most of the table. Steam rose from it, carrying the delicious smell of cheese and pastry. As Molly took a bite from her slice, sticky yellow strings of cheese pulled and snapped, melting in her mouth. She leaned back, content.

"You still haven’t told me why you’re so mad at your mother," Jim remarked. "Other than the obvious reasons, of course."

He would spoil the moment with questions like that, wouldn’t he? Molly sighed. "It’s complicated."

"Most things are."

"It’s about her and Dad," she began. And a little girl who was treated like she was crazy for wanting to become a pathologist, but that was another story—one she wasn’t keen to tell. "Dad was never very well, but when he started getting sicker the two of them... Well, they just drifted apart. Mum didn’t like dealing with him when he was having his bad turns. So I had to look after him instead. Mum liked that even less. Said it would just encourage my silly ideas of going to medial school. And she argued with Dad more and more, till eventually they weren’t speaking much." She shrugged. "Then Mum moved out and took me with her. They got a divorce soon after that. Mum made me stay with her, and Dad had to spend months in hospital ‘cause there was no one to look after him." Sitting up straighter, Molly recalled the events with frown. "Eventually Dad got a bit better and he moved out to the country. I didn’t see him much for awhile, but I did go visit now and then. He helped me get the money for university and argued with Mum on the phone till she finally let me go. Dad was always good to me like that, he always understood me. And he was always there for me and Mum. But she wasn’t there for him." She looked at Jim. "That’s why I’m still angry. She abandoned Dad when it got too hard. When he needed her most she wasn’t there."

"Then why do you still care about her?"

"Because she’s my mum." It seemed such a simple answer. But she could see Jim didn’t understand. "What about your parents?" she asked. "You said—that they were dead. You never told me anything else about them."

"Nothing to tell," he shrugged. "Don’t remember much about them."

She couldn’t imagine not knowing her parents. Perhaps that explained a lot about Jim. "Who looked after you after they died?"

"Oh, always a different foster family every year. None of them liked me. I  _hated_ them." He took another slice of pizza from the box. "Spent most of my time at boarding school. Hated everyone there too."

"Like Carl?"

His expression changed as he chewed the pizza. "Not just him."

Molly smoothed her blouse, flicking a piece of cheese off it. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders and she twined her fingers through it. "Neither of us really fit in, do we? The man who solves murders and the woman who cuts up corpses."

"I gave up fitting in long ago. Boring." He laughed. "And impossible."

"I still try," Molly admitted. "But I’m always the quiet one, the one nobody talks to. At school everyone thought I was strange. And then it got worse when I decided to be a pathologist. People said it was creepy, that it wasn’t normal for a girl to be so interested in death."

Jim smiled. "But you did it anyway."

"I’ve always known when people talk about normal, they don’t mean me." It was strange to finally say all this out loud. Her dad would have listened, but she’d never been able to talk about it to him. "So why should I care what’s normal?"

"And here you are, Molly Hooper—pathologist."

"Yes, I am," she nodded. So much hard work had led her there. Long years at medical school, interning at Bart’s, putting every bit of her soul into her work so she could earn the job she wanted. She was the youngest pathologist at the hospital. Most were years older than her. But she’d let determination carry her through, past all the hurdles life had thrown at her. And, when she thought about it, she was proud. It wasn’t a normal job, but it was the one  _she_ wanted.

"It’s better, isn’t it—being us?" Despite his nonchalance, Jim almost seemed to be seeking reassurance.

Putting on a smile, Molly agreed. "Who else could we be?"

"You’d be surprised." Leaning back, Jim rubbed his neck, his eyes growing distant. "I’ve tried being lots of people."

"Like the man in suits Mrs. Hudson knew?"

The tips of his teeth poked through in a thin smile. "Very good, Molly." He nodded. "I cut quite a figure in a suit, don’t I? Everyone likes a well-dressed man. Used to get lots more cases back then. Travelled all over, had some ridiculous adventures. You would have liked it."

"Why did you stop?"

"The money ran out, my dear." He shrugged. "My parents left me a healthy trust fund and I was admittedly less than frugal with it. I suppose I  _could_ have gotten a job—a normal one—but that sounds about as fun as tying myself to the train tracks. Less fun, actually. And being a detective is never gonna put you on the fortune 500 list."

"What would you have done—if you hadn’t met me?" She wasn’t sure why she asked. Maybe it was the memory of walking in on Jim with a knife in his hand above his heart.

Jim’s eyebrows creased together. "Dunno, been evicted I suppose. Didn’t have any long term plans. I was just gonna take things they came. Does it matter? I did meet you."

"Yeah, you did." She smiled. "I’m—I’m glad you did. I mean, I’m glad I met you. This has been the best week I’ve had in a long time."

"God," groaned Jim. "It’s only been a week?"

"Well, nine days."

"Time passes so  _slowly_ !" He dragged a hand down his face. "What are we supposed to  _do_ with it all?"

"I think," Molly said carefully, "we’re supposed to enjoy it."

"How?"

Reaching forward, she touched his hand gently. His skin was cold against hers and she could feel him fighting the urge to pull away. "That’s why people have friends. So they’ll have someone to share it with."


	11. Chapter 10

"Morning!" Molly was surprised by her own cheeriness as she greeted Meena.

Her coworker nodded in reply. "Hey, Molly. Had a good weekend?"

"Not exactly—well, I guess I did. No, not really. I don’t know. It was good and bad. Mum came for a visit." She sighed. "But there were other things too. I had a lovely time with Jim last night."

Meena’s eyebrows shot up. "You  _what_ ?"

"Talking to him," Molly explained hastily. "We sat and talked for hours. I don’t even remember what it was all about, but it was nice."

"So you aren’t regretting moving in with him yet?"

"No," Molly smiled and shook her head. "He’s terrible sometimes, but... He’s also wonderful. I don’t know how to explain it. Life’s never dull when you’re with him." She pulled on a lab coat. "So, what do I have today?"

Meena checked her clipboard. "You’ve got a Liang Yao, stabbing victim."

_Perfect_ . She still felt bad that they hadn’t been able to help Soo Lin, but the thought of finding his killer brought some solace. Jim had said he was going to the museum to talk to her, and she was glad she’d be able to help in her own way by doing the postmortem. "I’ll be in the morgue then," she told Meena.

* * *

The National Antiquities Museum was mercifully less crowded than it would have been on a weekend, but Jim was still far from pleased by the number of people he had to pass amongst as he hunted for Soo Lin Yao.  _God, why are there so many children?_ He scowled as a young girl shoved past him, giggling her stupid head off.  _Shouldn’t they be in school?_ Why would anyone allow children in a place housing valuable and fragile artefacts? When it came down to it, why would anyone allow children?

He shoved his hands in his pockets. If he was honest with himself, he was just a tiny bit irritable. Something felt off. Not the lack of an admiring audience beside him, certainly not. Why would he miss having Molly with him while he investigated? He’d always preferred to work in complete solitude in the past. If he could have dispensed with Scotland Yard entirely he would have, but he needed to stay on reasonably good terms with Donovan otherwise she’d stop throwing cases his way.

There was something stimulating about having someone to air your thoughts out loud to, though. What was the good in making a hundred rapid fire deductions if no one was around to listen? He tried not to admit it, but the theatrics were his favourite part. Looking mysterious and smiling with hidden knowledge was only satisfying if it brought out exasperated sighs from someone else as they tried to make you tell them what you’d just figured out.

But, annoyingly, Molly had a job, which she insisted she had to go to. As if arriving an hour or two late would have been so terrible—the corpses wouldn’t mind, now would they? And since the only other human being he had handy was Mrs. Hudson, he’d chosen the lesser of two evils and gone alone.

As he neared the storerooms, where he’d been told he would find Soo Lin, Jim noticed an unusual number of official-looking people hurrying for the scene. When he got closer the sounds of shouting reached his ears and pushed through the throngs to find a man in a suit waving his hands furiously at a sobbing Soo Lin while a museum security guards and several men who could only be police hovered nearby.

"How could you let this happen?" The man paced back and forth, glaring at the unfortunate woman.

"I-I don’t understand." She wiped her eyes, trying to keep her composure. "I just—I don’t understand!"

Edging through the crowd of onlookers, Jim approached the police. "What’s going on?" he whispered.

"Clear off," the man hissed back. "We’re trying to conduct an investigation. Last thing we need is a bunch of lolly-gaggers."

"I’m a friend of Miss Yao’s," he insisted. "What’s happened? What did she do?"

"Nicked some valuable pottery is what she did," one of the museum guards said excitedly. "We just had some ol’ Chinese vases or something along those lines sent in and she was in charge of setting them up for the display. Only one with access to ‘em."

"And they’ve disappeared?"

The guard shook his head. "No, she was cleverer than that. They’ve been replaced! One of the other curators was looking at them as she got the display ready and he noticed something looked off about them. So we had a proper examination and it turns out they’re fakes—she must have swapped them in while the real ones were in her care. Thought no one would notice since she’s always the one who handles them. Probably planned to sell off the real ones on the black market."

"I didn’t take them!" Jim heard Soo Lin sob to the man questioning her. "I promise you, I knew nothing about the fakes!"

The man scowled. "The museum that transferred these items to you confirms they were unquestionably genuine when they last laid eyes on them, and the only person to touch them since then was you. How else do you explain the switch?"

"I don’t know." Her voice cracked. "Please, this is a very difficult time for me. My brother just died. Please leave me alone." Her sobbing turned to crying and Jim quickly slipped past the guards, putting an arm around her and letting her cry against his chest.

It wasn’t as honourable a gesture as he was sure it looked to everyone else, and he cringed as he felt her tears wetting his shirt, but one had to make sacrifices in the line of duty. He’d gotten himself into the scene and that’s what counted. "It’s okay," he whispered.

"Excuse me," the man began, "we’re busy—"

Jim silenced him with a glare. "Tell me what happened," he said to Soo Lin.

She looked up, her eyes still wet with tears. Then her expression blackened. "You!" Pushing her hands against her chest she shoved herself away from him.

"Thought you said you were a friend," Jim heard one of the men snicker behind him.

Soo Lin pointed a finger at him. "You said you’d help my brother! You said you’d find him!"

"There was nothing I could have done. He was dead before you even came to me."

"And have you found the man who killed him?" she demanded.

"Well, no—"

"Then I have nothing to say to you."

It would all be so much easier if Molly was there, Jim decided. She’d know what to say. Molly seemed to have a calming effect on people—a byproduct perhaps of her own quiet persona which set people at ease and made them feel less inadequate compared to someone so shy and insignificant. Actually, that was probably a theory that should be filed under things not to say out loud to Molly. "I’m trying to help you," he said at last. "If you didn’t take those vases, maybe I can prove it."

"I don’t need your help." But she wavered, looking at the stern police around her.

"No extra charge," coaxed Jim. "I just want to satisfy my own curiosity."

"Alright." Stepping closer, bitterness still written on her face, she folded her arms. "But you must promise—and mean it this time—that you will find who killed Liang. No matter what."

He nodded. "Of course. Now, I need you to tell me when you think the vases were swapped with the forgeries."

"I—I don’t know," she admitted. "I never noticed any differences... Even when I was handling the fakes. I... My mind was elsewhere."

"Liang?"

"Yes." Light glistened in her eyes as they grew moist again.

"Hmm." His chin felt scratchy in his hand as he rubbed it, his eyebrows drawn.  _No... No... Maybe?_

* * *

With a gloved hand Molly touched the dark round imprint on Liang Yao’s neck. She measured it, noting the details in her report. It probably wasn’t important. Jim didn’t seem to think it was. She went back to the other wounds on his body, examining them in more detail.

When the postmortem was completed she stripped off her gloves, letting cool air flow over her hands before washing them in the sink and taking off her bloodstained coat. Straightening her appearance, she headed for the hospital cafeteria. One would think you’d need a strong stomach to eat lunch after slicing open cadavers and poking around their insides, but she’d never thought of herself as being any less squeamish than anyone else. Autopsies had become such a commonplace part of her life that they simply didn’t bother her.

Meena was already at their usual spot, a tray and a styrofoam coffee cup resting on her side of the table. Molly set her own try down beside it. "Hi."

"Hi," Meena nodded back.

The sound of cutlery and dishes clinking filled the silence for a time until Meena finished her coffee and leaned back. "So," she said, "your mother came to visit?"

"Yeah."

"How long’s it been since you saw her?"

Molly hunched her shoulders, shrugging. "Awhile. I’d rather keep it that way, to be honest. But she wants to see me again tonight..."

"Can’t you make up an excuse?"

"No," Molly sighed. "I already told her I’d be there. And I don’t want to make her any crosser than she is."

"Did you have a fight?"

"Not... Not exactly." Prodding her empty plate with the fork, Molly looked down. "It was Jim."

There was a knowing nod from Meena. "I can believe that. What did he do?"

"Just... said some things. Nasty things. Now Mum hates him and thinks I’m an idiot for staying with him." Her eyes didn’t meet Meena’s. She suspected her friend thought the same thing. "Jim says he’s going to apologise though—when Mum comes tonight. Hopefully we can settle things." Not likely. Why did she always try to be the optimist? It just set her up for disappointment.

Meena remained tilted back in her chair for a time, then leaned forward and folded her hands. "Molly," she said, the casualness in her voice a touch too forced, "I was talking to an old mate of mine yesterday. She’s just kicked her ex-boyfriend out and she’s looking for a flatmate. She’s a nice girl, likes to party a little but she says she’d be quiet around the flat if that’s what her flatmate preferred. She lives in a lovely part of the city, and you should see how nice her place is..."

"Are you trying to make a point?" Setting down her fork sharply, Molly stared into her friend’s eyes. There was that sisterly concern in them she’d seen a lot of lately.

"I thought maybe you’d like to talk to her. Just talk—and perhaps go look at her flat. You’ll love it, I promise."

"I already have a flat."

"But you might like her place better," said Meena sweetly. "Just look at it."

"Look... I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Meena," Molly swallowed. "But it’s fine. It really is. I’m happy where I am."

The concern in the other woman’s eyes increased. "Maybe you are, but is living with Jim Moriarty really the best thing for you? I was talking to one of the guys from IT. He says he always thought Jim was a bit of a psychopath. Never spoke to anyone except to say something rude, and he used to ask some of the pathologists all kinds of questions about the bodies that came in. Once he even tried to get one of the lab assistants to slip him a little piece of one."

Chuckling without a trace of humour, Molly tried to brush it off. "That’s just how Jim is. He doesn’t say much unless he’s showing off. But once you get to know him better, he’s really not so bad."

"He wanted body parts, Molly. Body parts! That’s not normal. That’s not like the little idiosyncrasies the rest of us have!"

"I... I’m sure he had a good reason." God, that sounded weak even to her.

Meena rolled her eyes. "I’m sure Frankenstein thought he had a good reason too, but that didn’t make what  _he_ was doing any more normal."

"It was probably for an experiment."

"Don’t you see what’s happening?" Her friend sighed. "You’re making all these excuses for him. You’ve only known the man a week, but he’s got you under his spell. I know it’s easy to get caught up in someone who’s mysterious and strong and exciting, but you have to look at things objectively. He’s not good for you, Molly. You work in a morgue by day—your personal life should at least offer a glimmer of normality."

The day had started out so well. Even dreading her mother’s impending visit later, she’d been pleased with life. Talking to Jim the night before had washed out so many bitter thoughts and feelings she’d been hiding. And now Meena had to go and spoil it all. "Like your life?" she snapped. "A husband and kids? School runs in the morning, making supper when you get home, sitting in front of the telly all evening, then going to bed and having sex even if you don’t feel like it because it’s your duty, and finally getting up the next morning to do it all over again? Is that the kind of life I’m supposed to have?"

The sympathy in her friend’s face drained away, replaced by tightly drawn lips and a clenched jaw. When Molly had finished her spiel, Meena rose sharply. "You’re even beginning to sound like him!" The chair was shoved back and Meena marched away, taking her tray with her.

Molly stared after her.  _God,_ she realised,  _I am._

* * *

He was getting rusty. Jim yanked the knife from the wall, sending fragments of wallpaper fluttering down. Pacing back, he levelled his gaze at the circle he’d marked and dipped his hand back, flinging the knife in a quick flick of the wrist. It imbedded itself in the wall with a thud, just inches from the target. "Shit." There was a time when he could have hit it without even trying.

Mrs. Hudson was sure to come in and complain as soon as she noticed the sounds coming from his room, but to hell with that. He needed to focus. As his fingers clenched around the knife, his mind ran back over everything Soo Lin had told him at the museum. A hazy picture was starting form, though the faintest contrary breeze threatened to blow it all away. There was still a question of  _who_ and  _how_ . 

The knife whizzed through the air, slamming into the wall. Touching the edge of the circle, it was the closest he’d gotten yet. Jim allowed himself a smile of satisfaction before cursing his poor aim again as he dug it out the wall.

It was funny, holding a knife without any intention of using it on himself. He wondered why he’d ever stopped the knife-throwing. Certainly not because of Mrs. Hudson’s protests—he never listened to her anyway. Maybe it was because it had lost its joy. Just another pointless exercise in a lifetime of them. So why was he enjoying it now?

The knife grazed the edge of the circle again, but still didn’t penetrate it. He stamped forward and yanked it out with enough force to send a stab of pain through his wrist. Then he went back to his position and lined up with the target.

There was still the matter of how the killer knew Liang. Perhaps an overheard conversation, maybe Soo Lin had mentioned it to one of her co-workers?

Making the switch was easy. All they needed to do was break into the bank’s vault and swap the vases with the forgeries. In her grief-stricken state Soo Lin wouldn’t know the difference and it was only through chance they’d been found out so soon. Months could have gone by and no one would know, giving the thief time to discreetly sell the originals and erase all evidence tying them to the crime. When the forgeries were discovered, everyone would think they’d been switched in recently, muddying the true facts of the matter.

But how did the culprit get into the bank?  _How?_ The question still plagued him. And there was the other room, the one splashed in paint... Somehow they had to be connected. But how could the thief have time to paint the room and steal the vases at the same time? It didn’t make sense.

Jim held the knife steady, everything around him disappearing as he zoned in on the target.

Unless...

Unless...

_Oh, ohhh._ He began to chuckle.  _That’s_ good.  _Brilliant._ Why had it taken him so long to realise?  _He only knows one trick but he uses it well_ . 

He let the knife fly. This time it struck the centre and he let out a triumphant cry, hopping up and down. Mrs. Hudson would know for certain something was going on now, but oh, who cared about her when his knives were striking dead centre? He tittered with glee and ran to pull the knife out.

Just as he’d yanked it loose there was a creak behind him. Swinging around, still holding up the knife, he came face to face with the snake-like, reproachful visage of Ms. Sawyer. "Hi," he called out, trying to hide his displeasure at seeing her.  _Gotta be nice to her, that’s what Molly said_ . And he was having far too good a day to risk upsetting Molly. 

"What are you doing with that knife?" the woman hissed, pulling the door against herself like a shield.

"Oh, this?" He stepped closer, holding it out.

"Don’t come near me!" She retreated further out the room.

Shrugging and pulling his lips up in a lazy attempt at an apologetic smile, Jim dropped his hand to his side, letting the knife point harmlessly towards the floor. "Sorry. Just having a spot of target practice."

Her eyes widened in indignant horror. "Where’s my daughter?"

"She’s not back yet. Must still be at the morgue. Want to see me throw this?" When he lifted the knife she backed away again so he quickly put it down. "No? Well, maybe later."

Shaking her head to herself, Ms. Sawyer marched across the room and settled in a chair. "Twice— _twice_ my own flesh and blood doesn’t see fit to show up to greet me. Well, that just goes to show how much she cares about her mother, doesn’t it?"

Jim found himself frozen, staring awkwardly at the floor. She was  _talking_ to him—was he supposed to talk back? Molly never said he would have to become embroiled in conversation. His eyes flicked anxiously to the clock. When was Molly coming home? What did people do in situations like this? What were you supposed to say? "Yes," he agreed blandly. That seemed safe enough. 

"Instead I have to be let in by the landlady again and I’m greeted by  _you_ doing god knows what with a knife," the woman continued. "I’m going to have quite a lot to say to that girl when she gets here, you can be sure of that."

"Yes." Jim nodded.

She said no more, contenting herself with staring around the flat with a wrinkled nose that suggested every nook and cranny brought out a dozen disgusted thoughts. The silence grew louder and louder until it was ringing in Jim’s ears. He remained static, unsure if taking the seat opposite her would be a good idea.

Something had to be done to shatter the silence. What could he say?  _What did Molly want me to say?_ He flinched. She wanted him to apologise. Clearing his throat, Jim tried to smile. "I, er, I wanted to tell you..." he began.

She regarded him the same way she had the flat.

"I wanted to say... I’m sorry about yesterday." That was an apology, right?

Her expression didn’t change. "Are you, now?"

Wait, did she expect him to say more? Molly never said it would be that difficult. "I’m sorry if I was rude." He wasn’t really—it had been the best part of her visit.

She remained unimpressed.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._ "And... I didn’t mean to reveal embarrassing details of your personal life, or imply you’d been sleeping around with several different men... even though you have."

Inhaling deeply and shutting her eyes, she seemed to be fighting to keep her voice calm. "I think, Mr. Moriarty," she said coldly, "you should stop talking."

So was that apology accepted then? "Okay."

To his intense relief—and Ms. Sawyer’s as well, judging by her face—the sound of footsteps echoed up to them. A moment later the door swung open and Molly came in, her keys jangling as she slipped them back in her bag. Before she could take off her coat, she froze at the sight of her mother.

"Someone’s finally decided to show up." Ms. Sawyer steepled her hands. "I suppose you forgot I was meeting you for dinner this evening."

"N-No, not at all," Molly gulped, shooting a look to Jim as if to say ‘why didn’t you warn me she was here?’

He smiled back. If he had to apologise to her mother, it was only fair she suffered a little too.

"Then why didn’t you come home on time?"

Molly took a deep breath and removed her coat, hanging it up before turning to her mother with a glassy smile. "I’m sorry, I really am. I stayed late to apologise to someone. I said some things to her I shouldn’t have and I wanted to clear the air before I went home."

Her mother snorted. "I hope your apology was better than the one your little friend here just gave me."

"Jim," Molly sighed. "What did you say to her this time?"

"Just what you told me to," he retorted indignantly. "I told her I was sorry for the things I said yesterday. What more am I supposed to do? Why do these...  _things_ ... have to be so complicated? Is this how normal people live?" He folded his arms. "I don’t know how you survive." What was the point of all this stupid social etiquette anyway? No one ever meant half of it.

"Can we just  _leave_ ?" Ms. Sawyer rose, pointedly ignoring Jim. "I made reservations and I don’t want to lose them. We’re already late."

Nodding, Molly started towards her room. "I’ll just be a moment. I need to change. Jim, try to keep quiet for five minutes, please?"

Oh, honestly. As if  _he_ was the one causing all the trouble! He’d tried to bury the hatchet, hadn’t he?  _I’d like to bury it in her head_ , he thought, watching Ms. Sawyer sour expression as she stared after her daughter.

The air between them felt as frigid as blast of arctic wind once Molly left. Ms. Sawyer sat primly with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed firmly away from Jim. He stared at her like a snake trying to hypnotise its prey. Neither of them moved.

Then came the sound of light feet padding over the floor and in a tabby blur Toby had bounced onto the couch, making straight for Molly’s mother. The woman barely had time to react in horror before the cat had launched itself onto her lap, its voice sounding loudly as it rubbed its face against her.

Jim had never loved Toby and he doubt he ever would, but he almost could have at that moment. A low snort escaped his lips as he tried not to laugh at her vain attempts to shove the cat off, her face growing more aghast by the second.

"Get off, you mongrel!" she snapped. "Where did this creature come from? Is it yours? Call it away!"

"Actually," he drawled, "it’s Molly’s. His name is Toby. Toby, meet your grandmother."

That only drew another glare from her. The cat kneaded her legs then settled down, curling up and tucking its tail over its nose. A loud purr erupted from its throat, sounding more like a motorboat engine than a cat.

"Get this horrible animal away!" she insisted, holding her hands at a distance as if Toby was poisonous. "What was Molly thinking? She knows I hate cats!"

"I don’t think she got him for you."

"Toby!" Molly came down the stairs, running to the cat. "Come, kitty." Gently she lifted him into her arms, smiling sheepishly at her mother. "This, um, this is my cat. I was hoping to keep him out the way, sorry."

Brushing the hairs from her skirt, her mother raised her nose with offended dignity. "Let’s just go. Put the cat away. I want to get out of here while I still have my sanity."

"Seems a bit late for that." The look Molly sent him made Jim vaguely regret his remark. He was going to be in trouble again when Molly got back.  _This is getting ridiculous. I can’t say_ anything.

Molly straightened her hair and tugged at her clothes. She’d changed into a fancier outfit but remained fairly casual, looking slightly out of place beside her elegantly dressed mother. "Do I look okay?"

Jim nodded. Her mother said nothing but shook her head just a little.

"Alright then, let’s go."

Before Molly reached the door, Jim opened his mouth. "You haven’t told me about Liang Yao," he protested.

"Sorry, what?" Molly stopped.

"You were at the morgue. Did you find out anything more about him?"

"For god’s sake, you aren’t going to talk about these stupid ‘cases’ of yours, are you?" Ms. Sawyer groaned. "We have to get going."

Molly smiled apologetically to her mother. "I did the postmortem," she told Jim. "Nothing out of the ordinary—certainly nothing that wasn’t already apparent at the crime scene. I, um, I looked closer at that funny mark on his neck. I still can’t tell what it is, but..."

"But what?"

"Well, I think it might be a bruise from a watch. It’s about the right shape, and, er, perhaps the killer grabbed Liang Yao by the neck while they were struggling? If his arm was around his neck and he did it with enough force, the face of the watch might bruise the skin like that."

Jim shrugged. "Makes sense. Doesn’t help us though unless we could somehow match the killer’s watch against the—" His voice stopped abruptly, as if all the air in his lungs had been squeezed out. Molly stared at him, but he could only open and close his mouth as he attempted to speak. Of all the potential solutions whirring through his head, this had never been one of them. In hindsight he wondered why, but the answer was obvious.

"Jim, are you okay?"

"Molly," he said in a gasp, grabbing her hands, "we have to go the bank!"


	12. chapter 11

Ms. Sawyer still couldn’t believe she’d found herself bundled in the back of a cab with Molly and her daughter’s dreadful flatmate, apparently on the way to some bank for reasons the man hadn’t been keen to explain. It was like a nightmare. She shifted around uncomfortably, glad Molly sat between her and Jim. "For god’s sake," she hissed, hoping the cabbie wouldn’t hear, "why are we traipsing off to this place? Molly and I are supposed to be having dinner."

"What are you blaming me for? You wanted to come." Jim waved his hand as if to absolve himself of all responsibility. "I promise you, any time you want to get out you only have to say the word."

"Only if Molly comes too."

Jim shook his head. "Nope, Molls stays with me."

"Absolutely not!"

"Excuse me," Molly broke in softly, "doesn’t ‘Molls’ get a say in this at all?"

"You know you’d rather come with me than her," said Jim smugly.

Ms. Sawyer found herself regretting the distance between them. His neck was too far away to wring.

"I just want to know what’s going on," sighed Molly. "What’s this all about, Jim?"

His face lit up like a spark hitting gasoline. "I worked it out."

"What?" Tilting her head, Molly stared at him and her brow suddenly shot up. "You—you mean the case? You worked out how they got into the bank?"

"And who and why!" He giggled. "Oh, Molly, I’m a marvel when I just do a little thinking."

"Would you mind letting me in on the secret then?"

All this time she’d been wondering why her daughter stayed with a man like Jim, but it should have been obvious. Ms. Sawyer shook her head, her mouth pulled down in disapproval as she watched Molly. A faint glimmer of the same fire burning in Jim’s eyes reflected in Molly’s.  _She enjoys this._ Just like she enjoyed cutting open bodies—the girl had always had a morbid fascination with death and crime and all the darker things the world offered, and this man was fanning the flames.  _And Molly doesn’t know she’s going to get burned._

"I don’t want to spoil the surprise." Jim grinned. "You’re gonna love it! But we have to get to the bank to find proof."

"The police exist for a reason," Ms. Sawyer muttered. "Go to them with whatever you know and leave the matter alone. Don’t drag my daughter into it."

She felt Molly’s small hand clasping her own. "It’s fine, Mum," the girl beamed. "I want to go. I’m sorry about dinner—maybe another night? Why don’t you take the cab back home after we’re dropped at the bank?"

"And leave you in the clutches of  _him_ ?" She jerked her thumb towards Jim. "I’m sure you think otherwise, but I’m a better mother than that."

"Mum, it’ll be fine. I’ve gone with Jim before on cases. I went out with him yesterday to a crime scene and nothing happened at all."

There was laughter from Jim’s corner. "That was fun, wasn’t it? Remember your face when you started giggling. You said I was making you just as bad as me."

"Jim, you’re not helping." Molly shot him a look.

"If you’re not going to do the sensible thing and come with me," said Ms. Sawyer, "then I’m coming with you to make sure you don’t get into any trouble. If you don’t like that, tough."

Putting his chin in his hand, Jim raised a doleful face to Molly. "Remember that thing you wanted me to do to the spider in the kitchen? Can I do that now?"

Molly huffed and folded her arms. "Jim, stop it."

"What about shoving the spider out the window? Can I do  _that_ ?"

"You’re just making things worse. Just be quiet—both of you, please." She closed her eyes. "I wish we could all get along. It would be so much easier."

"If you think I’ll ever get along with him..." Ms. Sawyer warned.

Jim seemed lost in his own twisted thoughts. "If only I had a shoe big enough..."

"Both of you—quiet," snapped Molly. "Now, this isn’t the evening I had planned, but I want to have nice time. I don’t want to listen to all this arguing."

Ms. Sawyer pursed her lips indignantly and stared out the window. She heard Jim muttering to himself.

It didn’t take long to reach the bank. The sky was darkening as they clambered out the cab and the streets had begun to quieten, the stream of pedestrians thinning. "We have to hurry," said Jim, pulling up the collar of his jacket as a chill entered the air. "The bank’s gonna close soon."

Ms. Sawyer had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him and Molly. Already the bank was looking deserted, and she felt herself reddening at the stares they were receiving from the few remaining customers and staff inside.

"We’re not quite blending in, are we?" Molly whispered to Jim. "Everyone’s looking at us. Where are we going, Jim?"

"Upper levels. That’s where the computers that store the security logs are."

"And, um, how are we going to get in there? Does your friend Carl know we’re here?"

"Nope." Jim waggled his eyebrows. "But he’s gonna let us in."

"How do you know?"

"Because he already has." He drew a key card from his pocket. "He just doesn’t know it. Here’s a tip for you, Molly girl—if you ever find yourself in a position to pick someone’s pockets, do it. You find the most useful things."

Ms. Sawyer’s hand tightened around the rail of the escalator. "So you’re a thief too, are you?"

"I occasionally borrow things I might need. Okay," he shrugged, "sometimes I forget to give them back. But people shouldn’t make it so  _easy_ for me—it’s their own fault if their stuff gets stolen."

As soon as they reached the right level Jim strode quickly towards one of the offices, stopping in front of the door. "Here’s where it gets tricky," he whispered. "There are cameras in each room and they have someone monitoring them. Unless we’re in and out of there in under a minute we’ll get caught."

"This is madness," Ms. Sawyer muttered. "We’re breaking into a bank! Like common criminals!"

"I know, great isn’t it?" gushed Jim. "My second time this week, actually. Though the less said about the first the better. But you’re right, we’ve got to think like criminals—a specific criminal. Our old friend with the paint."

Molly nodded. "You said you knew how he broke in?"

"Oh, Molly, it’s so much simpler than that. He never even needed to break in. The paint was added long before the room was locked." Jim steepled his hands. "It was never important—just a distraction to keep security busy. Which is what we need. I know it’s a bit of a bother, but would one of you like to play decoy for me?"

"You mean... distract security somehow?"

Jim nodded. "Go into one of the offices, dance about the camera until you’ve got the guard’s attention, then lead him on a merry chase while I hack into the computer."

"Why?" If her daughter wasn’t going to ask, she would. Ms. Sawyer planted her hands on her hips. "Why do you need to do any of this?"

Somehow he seemed to look down on her as though she were an insect, despite being only an inch taller. "I need to find  _proof_ . I know  _how_ it was done—our guy went in much earlier, did his little art job, then rigged the cameras to display the wrong images. Probably the footage from the day before. Suddenly, right when he needs the distraction, it switches back to the true image and the guard sees paint everywhere. All the guards go charging up to the office and no one notices someone else slipping into the vault to nick some antique vases and swap them with clever forgeries." He folded his arms. "But he must have slipped up somewhere. Discrepancies in the footage, identical images from the night of the break-in and the night before. Anything like that. If I can find it, I can prove how it was done."

"But how did he have access to the security system?" asked Molly.

Even in the dark, Jim’s eyes seemed to glisten. "That’s the surprise, Molly. You’ll find out soon."

"God," Ms. Sawyer paced, grinding her heels against the tiled floor. "Someone’s going to find us and then we’re all in for a lawsuit."

"That’s why I need your help, my dear." The sugar in his voice contrasted sharply with the sour look on his face. "I had planned for it to just be Molls and I, but since you’re here you might as well make yourself useful. Be a love and distract security for me, would you?"

"Absolutely not!"

He held up his hands. "Shh, keep your voice down. The idea is to  _not_ be caught." Snorting with false amusement, he shrugged. "But if you don’t want to help, I guess we can just go in there and try to find the proof before the camera takes the next image. I’m a genius—sixty seconds is a lifetime for me. What could go wrong?" He pretended to consider. "Weeell, I suppose we might be caught and spend the night at the police station. That’d be a little embarrassing—I might meet someone I know. And I’d have to get  _Donovan_ to bail me out. God, how she’d gloat. But," he smiled, "if you don’t want to help then that’s just a risk we’re gonna have to take."

"Look... I’ll be the decoy," offered Molly. "It’s fine, I don’t mind."

"What, and leave me with your mother? One of us would be dead by the time you got back and I have a sinking feeling it would be me."

When he put it like that, Ms. Sawyer had to agree with him. If she did as he asked she could at least get away from him... but it would mean leaving Molly to fend for herself. Any fleeting feelings of trust she’d had in Jim had evaporated long ago, if they ever existed at all, and she considered her daughter at risk if she was alone with him. The man had no sense of reality—god knew what he’d drag her into if there was no one to stop him.

"I’m walking through this door whether you help or not," stated Jim, putting his hand on the handle to prove his point. "But if you don’t want us to get caught, I suggest you divert that guard’s attention."

"Alright, fine." She held herself up with all the long suffering dignity she could muster. "But only for Molly’s sake. She’s an idiot girl for going along with this but she doesn’t deserve to end up in jail because of you." Turning on her heel, she marched off to find a camera.  _This is insane._

* * *

The room was a palette of greys when they entered, fuzzy shadows lying across the floor where the light of a shy moon fell through the windows. Molly followed Jim through the door, eyeing the security camera in the corner warily. They’d waited several minutes to give her mother time to alert security, but Molly still didn’t feel safe. Each step was taken with the utmost care, though Jim’s clomping across the room rendered her efforts pointless. He threw himself into the chair next to a desk surrounded by monitors and set to work typing.

"What if you trip some sort of alarm?" she whispered, new worries entering her head.

"I know what I’m doing."

"You’ve done this before?"

"Not quite, no..."

"...Okay."

The keys clicked as his fingers worked over them, somehow inputting the correct password. Molly wondered if he’d wormed it out of someone or guessed it. The latter wouldn’t have surprised her. She hugged her arms against her chest and circled the room, growing more anxious with each tap on the keyboard. "Why couldn’t you just ask Carl if you could poke through the files?" she asked at last.

Jim snorted but didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the screen.

This was going to be a long evening, wasn’t it? Molly came to rest at the window, her gaze roving across the thousands of flickering lights as the city came to life against the night. It was a beautiful view, but she felt exposed as she stared out, as if someone from the street below would see her and the game would be up. Ridiculous, she knew, but she turned away.

"Hmm." White light spilled from the screen onto Jim’s face, and in the darkness his eyes gleamed like black gems. He seemed to be studying something, his eyes flicking up and down.

"Find anything?"

"I’m comparing the footage from the day of the break-in with the day before. Nothing so far though."

Molly leaned against the desk. "Even if you do find something, what will that prove?" she asked. "It won’t be admissible in court—it was obtained illegally."

"I know." He continued working, his back to her.

"Then why are we doing this?"

The chair creaked as it swivelled around. "To prove the evidence exists. If it does, the police will find it when I reveal my theory to them and everyone will be happy. Well, not  _everyone_ , but the people on the right side of the law will be. Okay, poor choice of words there, given the whole breaking and entering kick we’re on... But yeah, we’ll be good." He turned back to the screen. "And I need to know, for myself. I need to know I’m right."

Molly felt her jaw clenching. "Wait, is all of this just... just a way of proving to yourself how clever you are? That you figured it out?  _Jim_ —"

"No." His tone was harsher than she was expecting. "It’s not about that. I—I could be wrong, Molly. I was wrong about the suicide case. I don’t want to be wrong this time. I have to know."

She sighed. "You’re still not going to tell me who’s behind it all, are you?"

"You’re a clever girl, work it out."

"Dammit, Jim."

As she stood in the darkened office, watching Jim work and glancing anxiously at the security camera, doubt began to prod at her, gently at first and then with force. Why did she trust Jim so implicitly? To the point of following him blindly into risky situations? It hadn’t occurred to her he might be wrong, and that was troubling in own right.  _Mum said I was an idiot_ . And she was right of course. But even during her worst bouts of impulsiveness, she usually wouldn’t be willing to go along with such reckless behaviour. They’d snuck into a restricted part of a  _bank_ and were hacking through its files. 

_And Jim knows Carl, he could have just asked to be let in._

Watching her flatmate, seeing the excitement glistening in his eyes, she began to wonder how sound his judgement was.  _He’d break into this place just for fun, wouldn’t he? Maybe that’s what he’s done_ . He certainly hadn’t offered any other explanation for the need for subterfuge. It was all a game to him.  _He gets his kicks doing risky things and pretending it’s just a big adventure._ And here she was right beside him, as if she couldn’t have said no and gone to dinner with her mother. 

_He’s bringing it out in me, isn’t he? I’m becoming like him._

Maybe she always had been and she’d never been able to get away with it before.

There was a certain thrill to doing things you weren’t supposed to, like breaking into offices. It burned beneath her anxiety, flaring up every time she heard a noise or felt as if they were being watched. But even she couldn’t deny, no matter how exciting it was, she didn’t feel safe.  _Jim isn’t safe_ . As long as she was with him, her propensity to do stupid spur-of-the-moment things was tripled, and for every crazy idea she had he had one that was even worse. 

_It’s what Meena and Mum keep warning me about_ . They were right—other people were always right and she was always wrong. Molly had learnt that long ago. 

But she wasn’t sure if she minded being wrong, and that was the scariest thing of all.

She leaned closer to Jim. "Do you think Mum’ll be alright?" Putting herself in danger was one thing, but her mother should never have come along.

"Oh, yeah, sure," Jim murmured absently.

"What if they catch her? Mum’s not exactly used to this sort of thing."

"Then we’ll rescue her. It’s not as though they’re gonna hurt her—they’d just hold her and call the police."

Molly crossed her arms over her chest. "I still don’t like this. Jim, I’m sorry, but I have to know  _why_ this is necessary. You can’t just act all mysterious and expect everyone to do as they’re told."

"Why not?" He raised an eyebrow. "Don’t you trust me?"

"I—I want to. But Jim, last time you did this... Making plans and then not telling me anything... I came in to find you about to kill yourself."

His typing ceased. "I was not," he hissed. "And this isn’t like that at all."

"Yes you were." It still frightened her to think what would have happened if she’d walked in a moment later than she did. "How is this different?"

"Because this time I brought you along."

"And what am I supposed to do? Just stand here and look impressed at everything you say?"

Shaking his head, he chuckled softly to himself. "I like an audience, but if that’s all I needed you for it would’ve been easier to go alone. Quieter too, and I wouldn’t have to put up with Mummy." Tilting his chin up so his eyes were locked in a straight line with her own, a crooked smile spread over his face like a crack in a wall. "You’re here to keep me out of trouble."

"Bit late for that."

"Well, okay," he giggled, "not out of trouble, but... I need you to keep me under control. Like if I get any ideas about climbing onto window ledges, hit me with something heavy. Not that I’m likely too—already tried it."

Molly seated herself on the edge of the desk, her feet dangling just above the ground. "It still seems a bit late for that. I think this whole excursion qualifies as crazy."

"Yeah," he agreed with a smile, "but not  _too_ crazy. This is just a bit of fun. I need you to make me go to the police once we find what we’re looking for."

"Why wouldn’t you go to the police?"

"I might decide to take things into my own hands and confront someone. I’m a genius, but I never said I was smart. I want to see his face..."

Molly frowned. "Whose face?"

"Don’t you see it Molly? Isn’t it obvious?" There was a note of desperation in his voice.

"No, I don’t."

"CARL POWERS!"

Only as the echo of his voice faded did Jim seem to realise he’d been shouting. "Carl Powers," he repeated softly. "Oh, Molly, tell me you see it now? It’s him, it’s gotta be him."

"Wait..." Blinking several times, Molly held up a hand as she tried understand what he was saying. "You mean Carl Powers is the one who broke into the office? He did all this? That doesn’t make sense."

"I told you, it was never about any of that. It was about the artefacts in the vault," insisted Jim. "That’s why he killed Liang Yao."

"...What?"

"The only way to stop Soo Lin from noticing the forgeries—grief."

"But how did he know about her brother?" countered Molly.

"She must have told him. Should’ve been obviously, really," admitted Jim ruefully. "Remember what she said? Someone told her about me? I was too distracted by the new case to question it at the time, but now I see it had to have been Carl who told her. Who else would know me? That means they’d spoken at least once. Makes sense, with the antiquities being stored here in the bank. At some point she must have mentioned she was going to pick up her brother from the station. Even told him his name. Carl used that to lure Liang along, probably under some pretext of being sent by his sister."

Her brow creasing, Molly rose from the desk and paced the room. "I suppose that answers the question of how he had access to the security footage, but if he really is responsible, why would he call you in?"

"Their own investigation was getting nowhere. The bank probably insisted on consulting a specialist." Jim’s lips twisted. "That’s why he chose me—and recommended me to Soo Lin. He knows I’m insane—he thought he could outwit me."

"You’re not insane, Jim." Molly almost reached out to touch his shoulder, but she didn’t dare. "And it just proves how wrong he was, because you figured it out anyway."

"‘course I did," Jim shrugged. "But only after you told me about the watch. Carl’s watch—the face was cracked. Must have happened in the struggle with Liang. I knew it was someone at the bank, but I never thought it was Carl. I’m not an optimist." He grinned. "See, you are good for something."

The master of backhanded compliments as ever. Molly smiled anyway. "So you think we’ll find enough to get him arrested?"

"Hope so, otherwise this’ll be rather a let down."

He turned back to the screen, flicking through images. She watched him. "He must have been very unkind to you, for you to hate him so much."

"Nah, I just hate people easily." His tone was too casual.

"But usually you think everyone’s stupid, like Anderson. You don’t try to impress them." Molly rested her elbows on the desk, looking into Jim’s eyes. He looked away. "I may not be  _you_ , but I can still deduce a few things. What did he say to you? That you were crazy? A freak? You almost believed him, didn’t you? That’s what this case was about, impressing him so you’d prove to yourself he was wrong."

Jim shrugged. "I’ve always been different, darling, and that’s the one thing the world hates."

A fire suddenly flared in his eyes. "Ooh, bingo." He shoved a finger at the screen. "Why didn’t I notice before? Look at the moon, Molly—it’s different sizes in these pictures. They’re supposed to be from the same night, but it changes when the paint appears. We’ve got our proof!"

"We still can’t prove Carl was involved though," said Molly. "It’s not enough. Anyone could have rigged this."

"It was  _him_ ." Jim tapped furiously at the keyboard. "He must have left some trail, anything that would tie this to him..."

Licking her lips, Molly turned to face the cityscape again. It was now a glittering collection of gems laid against black velvet. The light had gone from the sky completely. "We can’t stay here much longer, Jim. It’s getting late. I hope Mum’s okay..."

"We’ve got plenty of time." He seemed to be only half-listening to her.

"Nothing you find will be of any practical use, remember," she told him. "Save it for the police to find. We should go."

"Soon..." Jim didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

"This is why you brought me along—to stop you from doing silly things like this. The longer we stay, the more risk we run of being discovered."

His fingers curled together tightly. "I have to know for certain."

"Jim," this time she did put her hand on his shoulder, "you’re  _right_ . You know you are. Because you’re clever."

Nodding slowly, he pushed back the chair. "Can’t argue with that."

"Now let’s find Mum and get out of here."

"Are you sure we can’t just— Alright, alright, we’ll go."

As Jim was getting to his feet, Molly’s head suddenly swivelled to the door, faint echoes catching her attention. She wanted to believe it was nothing, but they were growing louder. Then the door handle began to turn. "Jim..."

He squinted at the opening door, pulling Molly behind the desk. It didn’t actually shield them from view but it was better than standing in the open. "Shit," he whispered. "I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I hope that’s your mother."

Creaking, the door edged open and a hand appeared, clutching the handle. Molly’s eyes widened when she saw Jim point to the cracked watch on the wrist.

"I know you’re in here." It was Carl’s voice. "Come out, James." He took a step through the door. "Something might happen to your friend if you don’t."

There was a nervous whimper from another figure who was dragged through, a gun against her head. Molly gasped before she could stop herself. "Mum!"


	13. Chapter 12

A cacophony of thoughts rushed through Jim’s head. Anger at himself for not anticipating the turn of events, irritation at Ms. Sawyer for allowing herself to be caught, a string of possible countermoves, fear, and above all excitement. Already he could feel the adrenaline flowing through his veins. "Where are the guards?" he asked calmly, stepping into the open.

Still gripping Ms. Sawyer, Carl shifted the gun from her head to Jim. It was level with his eyes and he could see the dark hole of the barrel. Jim wondered if he was supposed to be more frightened than he was.

"I sent them away," said Carl. "There’s no one to bother us."

"Oh, good. So glad we can have some time alone. Got anything special planned?"

The man shrugged. "Only your deaths, I’m afraid. I don’t want to kill anyone, you know—I really don’t. But you haven’t left me much choice. You never knew when to stay out of things that didn’t concern you, James. Always had to pry."

"It’s what you hired me to do, isn’t it?" Jim smiled. "Your fault."

"As I recall, I then fired you."

"Well," he shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets and moving closer, "Hired, fired—easy to get confused. Are you pleased? I solved your little case, just like you asked."

"You shouldn’t have come here." Carl shook his head to himself. "You’re a toad-faced idiot, but I honestly don’t want to kill you."

"I wish I could say the say the feeling’s mutual, but it’s not." Jim kept his voice singsong. "Gonna be a bit hard to kill us, though. You can’t shoot us or security will come running. I suppose you could stab us like Liang Yao, but that’s only gonna leave nasty stains on the carpet and three bodies you’ll have to shift. Bit of a dilemma, huh?"

"I can’t shoot you  _here_ ," corrected Carl. "You’re all going to come downstairs with me. My car’s waiting out back. I’m sure we can find somewhere nice and quiet to finish this."

Jim grimaced. "Tempting, but I already had plans for tonight. Maybe next week?"

"Move," the gun was pressed against Ms. Sawyer again, "or I’ll risk the guards blow her head off."

"Mum!" Molly rushed out from behind the desk, stopping short when Carl cast a warning glare. "Let her go, please!"

"Get out of here, Molly," Ms. Sawyer sobbed. "Run!"

Molly shook her head. Edging beside her, Jim touched her hand. "It’s okay," he whispered.

"Come on!" Carl was losing patience. "Both of you, start moving."

"You must be enjoying this," drawled Jim. "Finally outwitting me. You never could before. Always too stupid."

"I didn’t ask you to talk, so shut up."

Jim pretended not to hear. "That’s why you hated me," he continued breezily. "Sure, you could swim, you won all those medals, but I was always the smart one. I could tell everything about you in a single glance. You hated that. The best at everything else, but you would never be a genius like me."

"A dead genius isn’t worth much." Carl aimed the gun at Jim again. "You’re stalling."

"Ooh, good, brilliant deduction." Chuckling, Jim shuffled closer. "Why don’t you just shoot me now? Tell your guards there was a break-in and you had to kill us in self-defense. Won’t be far from the truth."

"Or I could just make you come with and avoid the risk." By then Jim was standing directly in front of Carl and he pressed the gun against his forehead.

The ring of metal touching his head was cold. Jim smiled. "What if I don’t go?"

"Then you’ll be the stupid one."

"Jim..." Uncertainly Molly approached him. He watched her out the corner of his eye, noting her gaze was fixed on her mother instead of him. Not that he was jealous or anything. "Please, let’s just go with him."

"Smart girl," said Carl to Jim. "Wish I didn’t have to kill her, but that’s your fault. It’s not enough for you to get yourself in trouble, is it? You have to drag other people down too?"

"Misery loves company," replied Jim. "Though I could have done without the mother. She wanted to come, so anything that happens to her is her own fault." He could feel Molly’s hot glare on him and Ms. Sawyer managed to pull a scowl on her fear-wracked face. Obviously the appropriate response was to grin like an axe murderer. "Very stupid of her, getting caught by you. Oh, well, that’s what you get for leaving the job to an idiot. Though she’s not as much of an idiot as you, Carl." His grin widened. "You see, you’ve made one terrible mistake by pointing that gun at me."

Carl rolled his eyes. "Not pulling the trigger yet to shut you up?"

"No, thinking dear Ms. Sawyer cares one iota whether you shoot me or not." His calm expression instantly became violently twisted. "RUN!"

Carl only had a second to react in confusion before Molly’s mother kicked his knee and shoved out his grip. Jim felt the barrel of the gun slide the left as Carl tried to regain his balance. Then there was a pair of hands on his arm and Jim was yanked away, hearing an explosive bang that was so close it felt like it was inside his ear. Everything grew muted as a ringing took over in his head.

"Come on!" Molly was dragging him. Looking around in a daze, he saw Carl raising the gun again.

Jim stumbled forward, putting a hand to his hand and drawing it back to reveal powder residue, but a satisfying lack of blood. Molly pulled him along just as another shot rang out, and they fell more than ran through the open door. As he staggered to his feet, Jim saw Carl right behind them. Then in a flash the door thudded closed against his face.

"Stop dithering and come on!" Ms. Sawyer had a hand on the door.

Their footsteps echoed in the quiet halls as they rushed through the darkness. There was a creak as the door opened and they quickened their pace, heading in what Jim hoped was the right direction. It was hard to think when you’d had a gun go off inches from your head.

"That was a bloody stupid plan!" Molly yelled as they ran. "He almost shot you!"

"But we’re all alive—so far—so almost doesn’t count," Jim huffed for breath, leading them around a corner. "You could’ve pulled me away a second earlier, though. Left it a little close, don’t you think?"

"I didn’t even know what the hell you were doing! You’re lucky I had time to save you at all!"

"Dear god, could you two shut up? We’re trying to get away!" Ms. Sawyer barked.

His head still felt like an explosion had gone off within it, but Jim let the pain pass through him and willed himself to go faster, taking quick gulps of air and occasionally glancing over his shoulder. He could hear heavy footsteps getting closer. A thrill of adrenaline ran through him when he saw the familiar escalators that lead down to the entrance. They were almost free.

"Stop!"

He nearly tripped, the voice turning his tired body limp.  _Fuck. Fuck it all._ Why did he ever bother getting his hopes up? 

Molly and her mother fell in beside him, panting and staring at each other hopelessly. The long dash had been futile. Turning his head slowly, Jim stared Carl in the face as the other man approached, gun raised at them. There was no nonchalance left in Jim’s manner. He let his repulsion take over his face and set his teeth together in a grim line.

"Guess I’m going to have to kill you here," shrugged Carl. "You did have to make things difficult, didn’t you, James?"

"It was my pleasure." Somehow the words felt hollow. Dying back in the office while Molly and her mother escaped would have been infinitely preferable to this... execution? At least he would have had the final victory, even if it cost him his life. Now they were all going to die for nothing.

"And this is mine." The barrel shifted, pointing straight at Molly’s skull. "Your friends die first."

Jim swallowed. He could see tears glistening in Molly’s eyes and it struck him that it really was his fault she was there. "I’m sorry," he gasped.

She nodded. "I-I chose to come." Closing her eyes, she tensed and waited.

"Mr. Powers!"

All heads spun to the left. Boots stamped on the hard floor as three guards marched down the hall, their own weapons in hand.

"What’s going on?" one asked breathlessly. "Intruders?"

The blood could be seen draining from Carl’s face even in the dark. He nodded weakly.

"No, he was trying to kill us!" Ms. Sawyer screamed. "Arrest him!"

"They—they broke in," said Carl quickly. "Tried to run, but I caught them. I wouldn’t believe anything they say."

"Oh, for god’s sake, it’ll all be on camera," said Molly. "He was going to murder us."

"Call Scotland Yard and ask for Detective Inspector Sally Donovan," Jim added. "Tell her you’re holding Jim Moriarty in your custody and ask her to pop round. She’ll vouch for me—I think." He tried to recall if he’d said anything recently to offend her. It was hard to say because people got offended so easily...

The guards exchanged puzzled, slightly nervous glances. One of them noticed the gun Carl was still holding. "Er, perhaps you’d better hand that to me, Mr. Powers," he said sheepishly. "I’m sure we’ll get this all straightened out soon, but until then I’ll hang onto that for you. Just a precaution, you understand. I don’t believe these people for a moment."

"Of... Of course." Carl’s hand fell and he let the guard pry the gun from his hand. There was defeat in his eyes. He knew the game was up.

It was hard to gloat when you were surrounded by people with guns, even if you knew you’d won, so Jim contented himself with letting triumph burn in his eyes as he stared down his old  _friend_ . Perhaps life let him have good things sometimes after all. This was definitely one of those things. "Funny thing about fairytales, Carl," he allowed himself the first genuine smile he’d had in a long time, "the villains always lose."

"I should have let you fall," the other man spat.

"Ah, regrets, we all have a few, don’t we?" Jim rubbed his hands together, ignoring the guard hovering beside him like a hawk. "There’s just one last thing I want to know—what did you do with the vases?" His answer was silence. "Hope you weren’t stupid enough to keep them at your house or something, I’d be terribly disappointed. But you can’t have sold them already, so where are they?"

Carl snorted. "You’ll never find them."

"Oh, you’d be surprised at how good I am at finding things."

He shook his head. "No. Not this time."

"You seem awfully sure of that. You do realise a confession would help your case considerably? We’ll find them anyway, so why don’t you tell us where they are?"

"They’re out of my hands." His eyes looked bleak but he smiled, as if revelling in the one advantage he still had over Jim.

"Who has them then?"

"A friend."

Something in the way he said the word brought back flashes of memory.  _"A friend,"_ Rachel has said.  _"Well, ‘friend’ isn’t really the word..."_

"What’s his name?" Jim asked.

Carl turned away. "You think I would tell you?" He let one of the guards lead him away, throwing one last smirk at Jim. He was a man cornered, but Jim’s victory hadn’t been absolute.

Or so he thought.

Jim waited until he was almost to the end of the door before he spoke. He only needed one word. "Holmes."

A tremor seemed to run through Carl’s back and he stiffened, but didn’t turn around. The guard marched him out. The other guards made the three of them follow. Jim smirked to himself. "Holmes..." The name was a sigh on his lips.

* * *

"Mr. Moriarty," Sally Donovan dropped the case file on her desk, leaning back in her chair with a weariness she always seemed to feel after dealings with Jim, "you are the biggest pain in the arse I’ve ever had the misfortune of dealing with."

"Love you too." Grinning, Jim stood with Molly in her office. "So are we good to go?"

She nodded, massaging her temples. "Mr. Powers decided to do the smart thing and confess. Still hasn’t told us who he gave the vases too, though. They might turn up on the black market eventually, but it’s just as likely we’ll never see ‘em again. Still," she took a breath, "we did catch Liang Yao’s murderer, and that’s what counts to me. I just got off the phone with his sister. She’s finally got some closure now."

Molly’s head was bowed. "I wish we could’ve done more for her and her brother."

"I don’t know, I think you went a bit above and beyond the call of duty in this case." Folding her arms, Sally stood up, matching Jim’s stare with one just as intense of her own. "Breaking into a bank? Really, Moriarty, what did you think you were doing? You could’ve just come to me, you know. Do you have any idea how many phone calls it took to get everything sorted with the folks at the bank? They’re not pressing charges, but they damn well would have if I hadn’t talked to them."

The corner of Jim’s mouth tugged upwards. "What would I do without you, Donovan?"

"I didn’t do it for your sake, you bastard." She leaned in, still glaring. "How it would it look if the man I consult with gets arrested?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, I'm afraid.
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this story, especially coming up with new twists on the cases, and I also decided to switch other things up just for the hell of it, like making Sally the inspector. Sally's such an underrated character.
> 
> I had a lot of plans for future chapters, though I've forgotten most of them now. Sherlock was obviously going to be the villain, and John would've been a sort of Moran character (I don't think I had any plans to include Moran himself in any capacity). There would've been a Reichenbach Fall plot naturally, and Mary was definitely going to appear later on. Not sure what her role was going to be, but I love Mary and she would've been a pivotal character.
> 
> I never decided if Mycroft was going to be a good guy or a bad guy, though I leaned towards him being "good" but still trying to protect his master criminal brother. I also considered swapping him out with Janine, because back when I wrote this there were theories going around about Janine being Moriarty's sister. Not sure how I would've incorporated Eurus if this had been written after S4, but that would've been interesting.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, and I apologise for the forever incomplete state I have to present it in. If anyone ever wants to adopt the story in any capacity, it's all yours!


End file.
